A Sea of Troubles
by Nili
Summary: Returning from the East, Aragorn and Legolas hope to get some peace at last. With one of Rivendell’s delegations missing and war looming on the horizon, however, peace becomes ever more unlikely as they must fight for their friends’ lives – and their own.
1. A Small Beginning

**A/N:  
  
Hi there!  
  
Before you say it, yes, I realise that I am a tiny bit late. I don't know if you read the announcement in my bio, so I hope that you haven't been waiting too long. I just got back from Holland on Friday, and since I haven't been writing as much as I had hoped I would, I needed some time to prepare all of this. It always takes ages to find out what little traps ff-net has devised now (just like deleting ff-net if I spell it any differently), and I really needed a day longer than I thought. Sorry about that, but don't blame me. Blame FF-net; it's more fun anyway. **** •g•**

**But here it is now, my ... •counts on her fingers**• **sixth story. I have to be careful, otherwise I might end up addicted or something like that... •g• I know, I know, it's too late by far. This one is my next "real" story in my ongoing nameless series about how much trouble Aragorn, Legolas & Co. can get into (we all know the answer: More than they think! •g•****), as opposed to "Everlasting", which was really just a tiny little birthday gift. It is therefore easier to understand what the heck I'm talking about when you've read "To Walk In Night", the immediate prequel of this story, but it's not strictly necessary. I try to explain everything as best as I can, so you should be fine.  
  
I'd like to thank you for all the reviews for Ch. 33 of "To Walk In Night"; they were really great and a huge encouragement. Without them and all the emails of impatient and/or irate people, who threatened me with death and dismemberment if I shouldn't start posting soon (****•pointed look at Isadora•)****, all this would have taken much, much longer! Thank you all very, very much!**

**Alright, that's all for now, I'll shut up now before you lose the rest of your patience! I hope you'll enjoy the story!**

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A Sea of Troubles**

  
  
  
  
**By: **Nili**  
  
  
  
Rating: **PG-13. Yes, I know that I promised to write something with another rating one day. Not today, though! •g•**  
  
  
  
Spoilers: **Yes, sure. There are always some spoilers for something, aren't there? •g• Well, let me think. This being a sequel to "To Walk In Night", there are rather heavy spoilers for that story in here, but there will also be some smaller ones for my other stories, mainly for "An Eye For An Eye" and "Everlasting". While it would make everything a lot easier if you'd read "To Walk In Night", I don't think that it would be necessary for the other stories. It is, however, not imperative to have read any of the above; I do my best to explain everything as I go along.There are also some tiny spoilers for "The Hobbit", "The Fellowship of the Ring" and "The Return of the King". Probably also for "The Silmarillion", but that's kind of unavoidable, isn't it? But I mean tiny, so most people shouldn't even notice.  
  
  
  
**Disclaimer: **I still do not own anything in Middle-earth, to my never-ending regret. Every recognisable character, setting, place, event and so on belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs. I do not have anyone's permission to use any of the above, but I do so anyway. I'm not a very nice person, I know. The rest, however (places, characters, demon-horses, spiders etc.) belongs to me, so please don't kidnap any of my characters. They might be rather happy to get away from me, but I wouldn't like it all that much. Besides, my alter ego would have a fit! And, finally, this story was written just for fun, and I will most certainly not receive any money for it. It would be a wonderful way to earn my living, but you can't have everything, I guess, least of all vast sums of money. Please do not use any of my original characters without asking me first. Thank you.  
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Summary: **After returning from Mirkwood and surviving the subsequent reunion with Lord Elrond, Aragorn, the twins and Legolas are hoping to enjoy the peace and rest that Rivendell has to offer. All such hopes are quickly shattered, however, when a diplomatic mission led by Lord Erestor disappears, apparently without leaving a trace. No one seems to be able - or willing - to shed any light on what has happened, and so the four of them try to find out what is going on. Caught between old feuds, greed and deep-seated resentment, they quickly realise that finding Erestor and the others just might be the least of their worries and that, once again, trouble has just found them.  
  
  
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Series: **This story is part of my mini-series which still doesn't have a name, poor thing. I think it will forever remain nameless. •g• Now that I think about it, though, it's not quite so small anymore, since this is my ... let's see ... sixth story now. The other five are (in chronological order)

**Straight Paths  
Everlasting  
An Eye For An Eye  
The Heart of Men  
&  
To Walk In Night**

I had no idea there were so many by now! •g• This story takes place in the spring/early summer of III, 2954, about two weeks after **"To Walk in Night"**.

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Additional Notes: **A long time ago I decided to follow Cassia and Sio's lead and pretend that Gilraen was killed with Arathorn, something that I sometimes regret by now since I try to stick as closely to canon as I can. It wasn't because I don't like her though, no; I started this way because it was easiest. I still think it's hard to integrate her into Rivendell-life realistically, and now that I feel confident enough to have a go at writing her, it's too late. •g• I hope you - and her - will forgive me for this not so little detail.  
  
Because of this and some other smaller things some people have told me that my whole concept is an **AU**, and I think they are correct, in a way. I totally ignore the fact that Aragorn's supposed to have met Arwen just after he had been told of his heritage (even though, in general, I have nothing against Aragorn/Arwen romances), and I must state here and now that I am aware of the fact that I am not Tolkien and therefore do not even begin to sound like him, something that can only be commented with "Duh!" in my opinion. I could never write as well as he does, which means that you will have to bear with me.  
  
  
A small note concerning the Elvish used in this story (both Quenya and Sindarin): I am a follower of the "mellon nín" variety. If you like the undoubtedly equally correct "mellonen" better, bear with me. As far as I know, you can use both versions.  
  
And, last but not least: It is no secret that English is not my first language. It is, in fact, my third, but that's beside the point. •g• So please, let me know when you find a blatant and horrible mistake somewhere - and you will, trust me. Some of them always manage to sneak their way into my stories no matter how hard I try. Pointing them out to me doesn't bother me at all and really helps to improve my English. Thank you!

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Chapter 1  
  
  
The fire was crackling and popping, casting bizarre, distorted shadows onto those sitting around the flames in a loose circle. Every time another log was added, a shower of golden-red sparks rose upwards towards the dark heavens, looking like a swarm of tiny, glittering fireflies.  
  
To anyone who witnessed this sight on accident the scene would have appeared peaceful, relaxing or soothing, or a mixture of all three. To four of the five travellers that were staring rather morosely at the dancing flames, however, it appeared to seem neither peaceful nor relaxing, and most certainly not soothing. If the aforementioned travellers had been perfectly honest, they would have admitted that it was not really the fire that was awakening the distant, but swiftly growing feelings of doom in their hearts, but rather their surroundings.  
  
Not that there was anything even remotely threatening or dangerous about their surroundings. Not even the most fearful and timid hobbit would have called the small hill whose edges were covered with trees, bushes, brambles and nearly impregnable undergrowth threatening or menacing. The creek that had its source in the middle of the flat-topped grassy knoll was making its way noisily and merrily down the sides of the hill, only adding to the serene picture that presented itself to the eyes of a casual observer. The trees encircling the slightly bowl-shaped top of the hill were shielding it from rain, wind and unfriendly eyes, and even a person who knew nothing about military tactics saw instantly that this was an ideal camping spot.  
  
That was of course the reason why the five beings had chosen this hilltop for tonight's camp. Amon Siril, the so aptly named Hill of the Creek, had been considered to be a nearly perfect camping spot for a long time, and for more centuries than most people could remember it had served as such for elven hunting parties or travellers who were in need of a sheltered camp hidden from preying human, orcish or dwarven eyes.  
  
And that, one of the four morose beings thought darkly, was also the reason why he was feeling this surprising amount of doom and dread settling onto his shoulders like an exceptionally heavy cloak. Amon Siril was known almost exclusively to the Firstborn, for almost no other race travelled this far north-east unless they absolutely had to. Even though the times were growing darker and ever more dangerous the hill was still rather often frequented by elven hunting expeditions, because of the simple reason that it was rather close to one of the elven realms that was still to be found here on Arda.  
  
Aforementioned elven realm was not that of Lothlórien, the dark haired being continued darkly with his internal monologue while he was staring at the merrily dancing flames as if they were in any way responsible for his situation. Neither was it the Realm of King Thranduil who was ruling the vast forests of Mirkwood to the East of the Misty Mountains, and it also wasn't that of Lord Círdan the Shipwright who resided in Mithlond where his people were building the ships that were taking the Firstborn willing to leave Middle-earth once and for all to the West.  
  
No, he thought wryly, it was of course the elven realm of Imladris, or Rivendell as Men and the other races called it. Under any other circumstances that would have been reason for joy and not for dark musings, but … well, the circumstances were anything but normal or usual. Tonight the negligible distance that separated them from the elven haven of Imladris was not exactly something he would have called fortunate or advantageous.  
  
Next to him, another figure wearing a dark green cloak gave him a half-amused and half-annoyed look, his silver-blue eyes sparkling faintly in the firelight. The dark haired being failed to notice the attention that was being bestowed on him, so focused was he on his dark thoughts, and so the green-cloaked figure let his gaze wander over the rest of his companions with a slightly irritated flick of his head that caused a flood of pale golden hair to fall forward over one of his shoulders, hiding one pointed ear in the process.   
  
If he had thought that his other three companions were in a more cheerful or amenable mood, he was sadly mistaken, a fact that was neither lost on him nor surprised him overly much. The four beings in whose company he had spent the past ten days had become more and more taciturn once they had crossed the mountain range of the Hithaeglir, something that he could even understand, at least in a way. Yesterday their mood had reached a new low, only to become even worse today, which, when one considered the date, was only natural. Right about now, however, his patience was beginning to give out, and he was dangerously close to reaching for his daggers and stabbing one of them, and be it only to get a reaction out of one of them.  
  
The fair haired elf narrowed his eyes in mounting irritation as he let his gaze wander slowly over the three beings that were sitting in front of him, all of them staring glumly at the flames. It was a miracle that the fire hadn't gone out already, considering the icy-cold quality of their looks.  
  
On a log right on the other side of the fireplace, no more than twelve feet away, sat a golden haired elf that was flanked left and right by a pair of dark haired elven twins. The brothers were wearing masks of identical moroseness that made it even harder to distinguish between the two of them, and even the small, displeased crease between their eyebrows which spoke of their ill temper was visible on both their faces. The fair haired elf didn't seem to feel any happier, even though his displeasure was not quite as obvious. None of them would have won a prize for a cheerful aura (or anything connected to cheerfulness) though, and right now the three of them were looking like especially solemn-faced undertakers more than anything else.  
  
Taking his eyes off this rather depressing sight, the fair haired elf gave his fourth companion to his left another quick look, only to discover that his countenance had become even more grim and anxious – something that he had thought unlikely, if not completely impossible. The feeble thread that connected his mind to what was left of his patience lost even more of its integrity, and with a prayer to Varda Elentári for strength and willpower the elf forced himself to redirect his attention to the flames in front of him. He wouldn't snap and throttle one of them, he wouldn't snap and throttle one of them, he wouldn't snap and…  
  
His inner mantra that hadn't been very successful in the first place was interrupted by a loud, heavy sigh that one of the three elves in front of him uttered in a particularly glum tone of voice, and the fragile link connecting him to his composure and longanimity disintegrated with a mental noise comparative to a snapping bowstring.  
  
"Alright!" he exclaimed with a dark frown on his face, his eyes wide and indignant in his face. "Enough is enough! Stop it, _now_, or I will throttle all of you, the Valar help me!"  
  
Three dark haired heads and a golden one turned around slowly, as if they wanted to emphasise their ludicrously bad mood, and four pairs of intense, searching eyes fixed on him, something that, under normal circumstances, might have bothered him slightly. These, however, the fair haired elf concluded irritated, were anything but normal circumstances, and he was reasonably certain that not even Lord Elrond's fabled _look _of impending doom, death and pain which he had quite often used on him and his friends would have impressed or bothered him right now.  
  
"Excuse me?" one of the twins finally said, arching a dark eyebrow and fastening mildly puzzled grey eyes on the other elf. "You were saying, Legolas?"  
  
"Exactly!" the thus addressed elf exclaimed somewhat cryptically, looking very much as if he wanted to wave his arms and jump to his feet in agitation.  
  
The four others exchanged a quick look, an expression flickering over their faces that at least suggested that Legolas had taken temporary leave of his senses, if not completely lost his mind. After a few moments the dark haired, rather pale man next to the so obviously agitated elf smiled somewhat nervously and carefully reached out to place a hand on the elf's shoulder in a soothing gesture, concern and confusion visible in his silver eyes.  
  
"Why don't you take a deep breath, _mellon nín_, and then tell us what…"  
  
The blond elf's eyes lit up in what could only be called an unhealthy manner, and the man withdrew his hand as quickly as if the other's shoulder had been scalding hot.  
  
"If I take a deep breath, Estel, I might gather enough of my wits to actually strangle all of you. Trust me on this."  
  
"And," the golden haired elf across the fire began after a quick glance at the man's face, looking at Legolas with friendly, but amusedly sparkling blue eyes, "might we inquire as to what has brought you to this point, your Highness?"  
  
"You, my Lord Glorfindel," Legolas answered straightforwardly.  
  
Glorfindel raised both eyebrows and allowed his eyes to widen to improbable dimensions, giving the credible impression of an elf who had just received the surprise of his lifetime.  
"I, my lord?" he asked, his tone of voice in stark contrast to the respectful manner of address. "Why, I am hurt! Whatever have I done to deserve your disfavour?"  
  
"If you don't stop this charade now, I shall truly do something I would regret later, my lord," Legolas answered through obviously gritted teeth. "I was not only speaking about you, Lord Glorfindel. I was also addressing your … charges."  
  
"Charges?" the twin sitting to Glorfindel's left asked immediately. "Did you hear that, my brothers? He called us Glorfindel's 'charges'!"  
  
"It would appear so, Elrohir," his elven brother nodded. "I would very much like to…"  
  
"…hear what has caused him to come to this regrettable conclusion," Elrohir finished his twin's sentence. "It appears that we have to…"   
  
"…rectify some things. Indeed."  
  
Aragorn merely grinned, already anticipating another of the twins' and Legolas' infamous "debates". A more appropriate term would have been "mutual insulting", at least in his opinion and that of the larger part of Rivendell's inhabitants.  
"I'll happily admit to being Glorfindel's charge," he informed the two elves in what he hoped was a neutral, reasonable tone of voice. "At least until we get back home."  
  
The twins turned slightly and gave him a look that was so cold that the young ranger unconsciously reached up to check that his ears hadn't frozen off or anything of the like. Aragorn gulped silently. So much for his neutral, reasonable tone of voice.  
  
"That is of course your choice, Estel," Elladan told the dark haired man silkily.  
  
"Choices have consequences," Elrohir nodded friendly.   
  
"Sometimes even unpleasant consequences."  
  
"Especially when you side with your brothers' enemies."   
  
Aragorn raised his hands in a vain gesture meant to appease the two elves, once again asking himself just how this conversation had deteriorated so quickly.  
"Let us not be hasty now, my brothers! The last time I read summaries of _ada's _council meetings, the Wood-elves of Mirkwood were, and I quote, 'friends and allies of Imladris'."  
  
"The Wood-elves of Mirkwood: Maybe," Elrohir nodded again, appearing totally unperturbed by his human brother's words. "He: Definitely not."  
  
"I couldn't have put it better myself," Elladan agreed smilingly.  
  
If such a thing was even possible, Legolas' mood had even worsened while he had listened to the twins' and Aragorn's banter. Under normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed the others' teasing, but, as he had concluded several times over the past few minutes, these were no normal circumstances. All this in combination with the fact that he was in no mood to let himself be cheered up by the people who were responsible for his bad mod in the first place led to him being seriously unamused by the entire situation.   
  
"You are absolutely right," Legolas agreed, his eyes narrowing so far that it was hard to tell whether they were even open or not. "Could we please get back to the point where I threatened to kill you?"   
  
"Of course," Elrohir nodded amiably. "Forgive us for getting a little sidetracked, _mellon nín_. So, why do you want to kill us?"  
  
The fair haired elf's eyes seemed to disappear completely under his brows that were knitted in obvious displeasure, and it seemed that he had to use all of his willpower to stop himself from physically reacting to the twin's teasing words.  
"Certainly," he answered curtly after he had unclenched his teeth with some effort. "None of you can think of a reason, then?"   
  
Aragorn smiled at his friend, innocence radiating off him in waves that were almost tangible, the exhaustion that had filled him only minutes earlier forgotten for now.  
"No."  
  
"Let me give you a small tip," Legolas replied in a tone of voice that was apparently meant to be friendly. "What have we been doing this evening?"  
  
Aragorn traded a confused look with his brothers and the golden haired elf sitting between them, and for once all three of them appeared equally clueless.  
  
"Travelling? Lighting a fire? Unsaddling our horses, avoiding being eaten by that thing you call a steed, collecting firewood, eating lembas…?" he finally offered, apparently not being able to see what they could possibly have done to upset the elven prince like this. They hadn't even tried to kill his horse lately, had they?  
  
"Yes," Legolas shook his head irritated. "And no. You have done that, but that's not all you've done."  
  
Glorfindel arched a golden eyebrow amusedly.  
"And what _is _it we have allegedly done, young prince?"  
  
"Brooding!" the younger elf exclaimed, his patience finally deserting him. "All of you! That's all you have been doing since we crossed the Misty Mountains! He is not going to kill you, for Manwë's sake!"   
  
The four beings in front of him seemed to sit up a little bit straighter, and judging by the looks on their faces, they knew exactly of whom Legolas was speaking. And they also didn't appear to be sharing the prince's rather optimistic assumption.  
  
"Just how exactly did you arrive at this conclusion?" Elrohir asked tersely. "I hate to tell you this and therefore rob you of your illusions, but I have known him for a lot longer than you have, and let me tell you one thing: He will not be amused. Besides, has one of you forgotten what day it is?"  
  
"The first day of _Ethuil_," Elladan inserted glumly. "Yesterday was _Yestarë ._ We haven't missed a New Year's Day Feast in ages. He will be furious."  
  
"Elladan," Legolas tried to reason with the older twin, "He is your father. He is _not _going to kill you,"  
  
An incredible snort interrupted the wood-elf before he could say more, uttered with so much underlying sarcasm that even Legolas was impressed. If there was one person who could convey sarcastic disbelief with a single snort, it was his father. Coupled with one of the Elvenking's fabled looks that bespoke of Thranduil's inability to fathom other people's naiveté it usually was a most impressive display indeed, and the fact that Elladan had come close to that kind of facial expression was something that very nearly awed the fair haired prince.  
  
"I have to agree with my dear brother," the older twin finally managed to ground out between waves of incredulous chuckling. "You have no idea what you are talking about, my friend. _Ada _will kill us. Slowly, if we're really unlucky."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Legolas shook his head. "Lord Elrond will be far too happy to see that you're all in one piece – or something like that," he added with a dark look into Aragorn's direction. "He will be too busy hugging you to kill you."  
  
"You might be right about that, young one," Glorfindel nodded glumly. "I, however, have known my lord long enough to know that his initial euphoria will give way to remembrance soon enough. And if there is one thing I have learned, it is that Elrond Peredhil has an exceedingly good and long memory."  
  
"You haven't even done anything!" Legolas protested rather feebly, inwardly asking himself just whom he was trying to convince of that fact. "Well," he added a moment later, "Most of you haven't, that is."   
  
"Oh?" Aragorn arched a dark eyebrow. "How so? I disobeyed your father's orders and stole away in the night like a thief. Elladan and Elrohir did the same to follow me, and Glorfindel did not only fail to stop them, he even accompanied them! And then, to top everything off nicely, we got ourselves almost killed! Several times, I might add!"  
  
"You don't have to say it quite so bluntly," Elrohir shuddered next to him, obviously already imagining their father's reaction.   
  
"But it is the truth."  
  
"What is also the truth is that, if you hadn't done what you did, I would be dead now," Legolas insisted, his eyes fixed seriously on the four solemn faces in front of him. "I would be dead or, even worse, still alive and sitting in a cell, waiting for the next time Glamir or Teonvan decided to 'have some fun' with me."  
  
The fair haired elf's eyes wandered over his companions, suddenly dark and very serious.  
"Without you, I would be at Girion's questionable mercy now, thinking about a way to end my life while I still could, and Wilderland would face open war. There is nothing you did wrong, and nothing Lord Elrond will hold against you. And you know that perfectly well, too, or all of you are fools."  
  
Aragorn lowered his eyes after a moment, the memories of the past few weeks still far too fresh in his mind. His still healing wounds that reminded him all too clearly of all that had happened while Legolas and later also he, his brothers, Glorfindel and Legolas' friend Celylith had been prisoners of Girion and his men chose just this moment to start throbbing again – not that he would have needed such a physical reminder of their ordeal. Almost every night he was visited by dreams and visions of what might have happened, bringing to his attention how close they all had been to ending their lives in Girion's dungeons.  
  
The young man shuddered slightly, unable to suppress the distress that stole over him at the mere thought of that man. Girion had been a descendant of the younger son of the King of Dale, who had fled the destruction of the city when Smaug had attacked Erebor and Dale more than 150 years ago. The grudge this son had held for his father and older brother had been handed down from generation to generation until it had escalated into intense hatred and an obsession to take back what the exiled lords perceived to be theirs.  
  
Girion had been the craziest scion of that already rather crazed line, and had come by far the closest to actually succeeding. His men had captured Legolas in the hopes of gathering more information before they struck and conquered Dale and as much of Rhovanion as they could, and Aragorn was fully aware of the fact that it was only to be attributed to a rather large amount of luck that they were all still alive and – relatively speaking – well.   
  
Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment when he realised how wrong that statement had been. They were alive, yes, but many of those who had helped them to overthrow Girion were dead, among them a young woman to whom all of them owed their lives. And not only humans had died, the man thought darkly. Galalith, one of Legolas' men who had been with him when the elven prince's patrol had been attacked, was now abiding in the Halls of Waiting, and his friend Anardir had followed him to Valinor, unable to bear the pain and grief that had filled his heart. He knew how heavily especially their fates weighed on Legolas' mind, and how desperately his friend needed to get away from these dark memories he had been unable to escape back in Mirkwood.  
  
The man forced his thoughts away from this particular topic. None of this was something he wanted to remember at this time (or at any other time, for that matter), and besides, Legolas was right. They had behaved stupidly and most probably also rather recklessly – even though that was something he wasn't truly willing to admit, not even to himself, because he was _not _reckless – but if they hadn't left the palace when they had, Legolas would have died. He didn't regret what he had had to do to help his friend, not for one second, and he would do the same all over again, just like the twins and Glorfindel. He only hoped that Elrond would see it the same way.  
  
Just because Legolas' assessment of the situation was correct it didn't mean that he was willing to openly admit that, however.   
"Maybe," Aragorn answered darkly. "But now pause for just a moment, my friend, and imagine what your reaction would be if it were _ your _father you would have to face tomorrow, not mine. What would _you _ do?"  
  
"Simple," Legolas answered without a moment's hesitation. "I would get up, find my horse, turn it south and hope that the Lord and the Lady of the Golden Wood were merciful enough to shelter me for an unspecified amount of time."  
  
Elladan nodded emphatically and pretended to get ready to climb to his feet.  
"Good idea. I'll get the horses; I am sure our grandmother would be happy to see us."  
  
"Oh yes," Legolas nodded as well, a wicked sparkle in his eyes. "At least for a while. And then she'll order a few of her loyal Galadhrim to drag you back to Imladris."  
  
"Ah yes," the older twin admitted wryly and sat back down heavily. "That too."  
  
"Prince Legolas is right," Glorfindel interjected neutrally, suppressing a small smile that wanted to spread on his face. "Your father will understand, young ones. He is far too wise an elf not to."   
  
"Yes," Aragorn smiled brightly. "But before that happens, he will lock us in our rooms for a few decades. With nothing but his famous tea and lembas, and _that _is enough to drive anybody insane."   
  
"Maybe," Glorfindel shrugged amusedly. "I never said he would understand instantly."  
  
"I wouldn't look so smug if I were you, Glorfindel," Elrohir warned the golden haired elf darkly. "He will lock you in your quarters too, don't forget that. And if I know him at all, he will allow Erestor to visit you once a day so that he can laugh at your misfortune and misery."   
  
That remark shut Glorfindel up as effectively as a padded gag would have, and Aragorn was sure that he could hear a small clicking sound when the elf shut his mouth forcefully. With a half-smug and half-grateful look at his elven brother he returned his attention to the still silently fuming wood-elf next to him and gave him a small smile.  
"You are right, my friend. He will not kill us, at least not instantly. Kindly excuse our … inhospitable behaviour."  
  
"Only because we will be reaching Rivendell tomorrow," Legolas replied, appearing a little bit mollified. "And only if you promise to stop staring at the fire as if your only goal was to put it out with your icy glares."  
  
"Is it working?" Elladan asked eagerly.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh," Elrohir said for his brother, apparently crestfallen. "Alright then."  
  
"Thank you," the fair haired prince answered, honest relief flashing to life in his eyes.  
  
"You are most accommodating, _mellon nín_," Aragorn bowed his head in mock gratitude. "We will surely mention it to _ada _when we get back home. He might simply send you back to your father with his best wishes instead of incarcerating you with the rest of us."  
  
"Don't think you can get rid of me so easily," Legolas replied with a small grin. "I have been at your side through many dangers, my friends. I will not abandon you now."  
  
"You might come to regret that decision," Elladan warned the other elf.  
  
"Maybe," Legolas smiled. "But what kind of friend would I be if I left now?"  
  
"A smart one," the three brothers replied in unison.   
  
The blond elf's eyes narrowed once again and he looked as if he wanted to say something rather uncomplimentary, but then a smile spread over his face even despite his best efforts. A few moments later he began to chuckle quietly, and soon laughter rang out through the camp, chasing away the dark mood. Not even Glorfindel could remain serious for long in the face of the four young ones' mirth and he allowed a large grin to spread over his face as he surveyed their smiling faces.  
  
What would happen would happen, and they would face the Lord of Imladris' formidable wrath when it was time – tomorrow. Besides, Prince Legolas was right: Elrond wouldn't kill them, not even if they _had _missed the _ Yestarë-_Feast. Would he?  
  
  
  
  
"He will kill them," Isál muttered rather gleefully, his keen eyes sweeping over the forest floor beneath them that was lit by the late afternoon sun. "This time he will do it, I am completely certain about it."  
  
"He will not," Elvynd shook his head and fastened grey eyes on his evilly grinning friend. "If he did, he would kill his heirs."   
  
"There is still the Lady Arwen," the other elf told the dark haired captain next to him earnestly. "She would be more than capable of ruling Rivendell, even with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back."   
  
"That she would be," Elvynd nodded without hesitation, with a reverent look on his face that most of Rivendell's inhabitants reserved for references to Arwen Undómiel or her grandmother, the Lady of Lórien. "Still, you can say what you want about our lord, but he is neither stupid nor reckless. He won't be willing to test the Valar's patience by starting another Kinslaying. The other clans would never let us forget it if we started such a thing not only once, but two times."   
  
"No," Isál agreed after a few moments of silent contemplation. "Most probably not."  
  
Elvynd leaned back against the trunk of the tree in which the two of them were sitting, a small smile on his lips when he looked at the mock disappointment on his friend's face – or at least he hoped that it was only mock disappointment. He wasn't really sure at the moment, especially when he considered the way the other's blue eyes were gleaming with something that could only be called malice. Usually Isál was a calm and sometimes even reserved elf, and the only times when he had been known to lose his temper had been when he had come face to face with orcs or other servants of the Dark One.  
  
The dark haired captain's smile widened a bit more while he watched how the other elf returned his attention to the path beneath them. Isál was dark haired like he was, but his hair colour was a tone lighter, more like a dark brown than black. That wasn't the only thing that set him apart from the Elves of Rivendell who were mainly dark haired, grey-eyed Noldor, for his eyes were blue, of almost the exact same colour as the sky on the early evening. At least the eyes were accredited to one of his grandmothers who had been a Sinda from Doriath, who had settled at the Mouths of Sirion after Dior Eluchil's death and the subsequent destruction of Doriath in the First Age.  
  
At least the eyes made the other look more like a Sinda than a Noldo, something that he had been told ever since he had been a young elfling. While that had been a reason for mild teasing when the two of them had been younger, it was now something that more than a fair share of Rivendell's unmarried she-elves found attractive – not that that interested the elf in question, of course, Elvynd thought distractedly. The only she-elf who was of any interest to Isál was unfortunately someone who was not very impressed by a pair of nice eyes or a slightly unusual hair colour.  
  
Elvynd shook his head inwardly, still not entirely sure whether he should feel sorry for his friend or not. Isál had fallen in love with a certain young elf maiden more than one and a half _yéni _ago, something he and their friends had found hilarious then. When Isál had shown no signs of recovering from his love-struck stupor after a few decades, they had all accepted his occasional cases of decidedly weird behaviour – such as going misty-eyed without any reason, going red in the face whenever the aforementioned maiden was anywhere nearby, staring aimlessly at nothing and starting to smile stupidly at the most inopportune moments – as normal.  
  
If one was slightly long-suffering, this arrangement worked just fine for everyone involved, and Elvynd was not an impatient elf. He was old enough to know when to simply sit back and wait for things to change that he couldn't influence anyway, but now even he was beginning to think that things were getting out of hand. He – unlike most of their mutual friends – had never believed that Isál would get over his rather hopeless infatuation with the undeniably beautiful elf maid to whom he had lost his heart, but lately it had been getting worse. Unless Isál got over his inborn shyness (and, in this case, also over his sense of self-preservation), his friend wouldn't be the only one who would go out of his mind.  
  
Right now, however, Isál wasn't talking about the beauty and many wonderful qualities of the young she-elf in question, and had – to Elvynd's great relief – resorted to talking about the other topic that had been of interest to him lately: What Lord Elrond would or would not do when he got his hands on his wayward sons and seneschal. It was in fact an issue that was being discussed to great lengths by most of Rivendell's inhabitants, and one which Elvynd, too, had given considerable thought. He hadn't come to a definite conclusion yet, but the fact that they had missed the _ Yestarë-_festivities was not something that bode well for their future.  
  
The dark haired captain shook his head slightly, forcing himself to return to the present. They would see soon enough what their lord would do to the twins and the others, because they were sitting in a tree overlooking the main path that wound down into the valley of Imladris from the east. There were two other ways which his long-lost lords could take, considering that they would be coming from the direction of the Misty Mountains, but chances were that they would be taking this one. Unless, Elvynd thought wryly, they had found some trouble on the way, had nearly been killed and would drag themselves down whatever path they had found after they had escaped the den of some horrible creatures.   
  
"They will have found some trouble by now," Isál unknowingly echoed his sentiments, his eyes not leaving the path beneath them. Elvynd couldn't quite decide whether the other elf sounded mildly gleeful or concerned. "You know they will have."  
  
"They might have," Elvynd nodded, trying to ignore the anxiety that began to rise inside of him at his companion's words. "I don't think they have, though. They still have another day before they will be overdue. There is no need to start worrying now."  
  
"Who said anything about worrying?" Isál asked and turned back to his friend. "I am not worried."  
  
"You should be," Elvynd smiled at the other elf, a slightly wicked sparkle in his eyes. "Think of what Lord Elrond will do to us if we return without his sons." He paused for a moment to give his words the time to sink in properly. "Or if we return with them half-dead."  
  
"You're right. I am worried," Isál nodded quickly, his eyes large and anxious. "Are you sure they aren't late yet? I think we should get reinforcements and go looking for them. What about ... now? Now would be good."  
  
Elvynd grinned and shrugged, but before he could say anything, the low sound of hoofbeat began to filter through the trees, making both their heads swivel back into the direction of the path. The approaching horses were still far away and were only slowly coming closer, and not even with the aid of the afternoon sun they could see one of the animals or their riders. From the sound of it, however, the young captain was reasonably certain that they were elven horses, but not even of that he was completely sure at this distance.   
  
"Is it them?" Isál asked next to him, squinting down at the dirt path. "Can you see them?"  
  
Elvynd rolled his eyes at the other's back, once again astonished at his friend's sometimes rather childish attitude.  
"No," he answered truthfully. "I cannot. There are trees standing in the way, you know."  
  
"Ah yes," Isál flashed him a quick grin. "They're sometimes rather annoying, aren't they?"  
  
"Don't let Prince Legolas or any of his subjects hear that," Elvynd advised the other elf with an answering grin. "He would not agree."  
  
"Prince Legolas!" the other captain sighed in a mixture of exasperation and horror. "Thank the Valar that at least _he_ is staying in that wood of his father's!"  
  
That was something with which Elvynd agreed wholeheartedly, and so he merely nodded and returned his attention to the path. Low birdcalls sounded around them, telling them that the rest of their patrol had spotted the approaching riders as well. To most humans, dwarves or even hobbits the sounds would have seemed like nothing but birdsong, but the two elves knew far better than that and listened attentively, finally looking at each other.   
  
"Five riders," Isál said uneasily. "Travelling light. Friendly. Three hundred yards away."  
  
"Five," Elvynd nodded, his forehead creased in confusion. "Why five? Estel and the Lords Elladan, Elrohir and Glorfindel. That's four."  
  
"Perhaps Lord Thranduil sent someone with them? An escort?" Isál offered hopefully.  
  
"He wouldn't have sent only one guard with them," Elvynd shook his head. "I think that…"  
  
What he was thinking Isál would never find out, because at this moment movements on the ground caught their eyes, drawing their attention from their conversation back to their surroundings. It took some moments until the faint movements developed into sensible patterns, and soon the two of them saw five horses appear on the path beneath them, only barely visible through the trunks of the dark, towering trees that were obscuring the road.  
  
Elvynd squinted slightly while his eyes wandered over the sight beneath him, seriously considering whether he should pinch himself or not. There were truly five horses approaching, moving at a leisurely pace that bespoke of the riders' unwillingness to be hurried in any way. The dark haired elf recognised the lead horse immediately – there was simply only one horse he knew that was as magnificent as Lord Glorfindel's Asfaloth, even though the horse in question looked rather disgruntled, with its tail flickering from side to side and its ears moving back and forth.  
  
The horses following the gleaming white steed weren't quite as impressive, even though they were beautiful, strong animals in their own right. The two large, grey horses belonged to the sons of his lord; they were twins, just like their masters, and it had therefore been clear ever since they had been born whose mounts they would eventually be. If there had ever been a case of animals taking after their masters, it was this one, however. All of Rivendell agreed that the two grey horses were just as stubborn and, at times, annoying as the twins, which didn't really surprise anyone, if they were honest.  
  
There was one thing that did surprise Elvynd though, or rather two things, he decided now that his stunned brain could begin to comprehend what he was seeing. One, Estel was riding up the path, looking rather pale and exhausted, on a black horse he had never seen before, and two, the Prince of Mirkwood was bringing up the rear, sitting on his large white horse … Rashwe, yes, that was its name. It wasn't the horse that was surprising him, though – everybody knew that the Silvan prince had a soft spot for the animal which had more than once been called demon-horse, monster or even more uncharitable things – but rather the fact that it was here. It shouldn't be here. They should be here, but it shouldn't, and neither should he. Well, it could be here, that wasn't that much of a problem, but _he _shouldn't be here, certainly not when _they _were…  
  
Elvynd realised that he was rambling, ran a suddenly slightly shaking, stiff hand over his forehead to get rid of the cold sweat that had accumulated there and grabbed the tree trunk next to his head so tightly that his knuckles showed white through the skin. By the Valar, this was not a good sign; it did in fact spell "Disaster" so clearly that he was surprised that one couldn't see the words float above the heads of the riders in fiery letters.  
  
The first rider stopped his horse a dozen yards away from their tree, golden hair spilling over his shoulders and down his back while he turned his head from side to side. After a few moments he turned around and called for his companions to join him, and Elvynd reluctantly let go of the tree and reached out to clap his friend's back.  
  
The gesture which had been meant to convey to Isál that they should descend the tree went unheeded, and Elvynd was already halfway down when he realised that the other elf wasn't following him. With an inward sigh Elvynd made his way back up to where Isál was standing, his eyes fixed on the five riders beneath him. Elvynd had to all but drag the nearly paralysed captain down the tree, and so their arrival next to the small group of riders was quite a bit less dignified than he would have liked.  
  
Swallowing his relief, anxiety, joy and the growing sense of dread, Elvynd gave the four elves and the ranger in front of him a deep brow. A few moments later, when he was hopeful that he could keep a serious face, he straightened up again with a small, tentative smile.  
"My lords. The Valar be praised for granting you a safe return."  
  
"Captain Elvynd, Captain Isál," Glorfindel smiled down at the younger elves. "It is good to see the both of you." He nodded at Elvynd. "You are quite a bit away from your usual sector, aren't you? And your men, too?" he added with a poignant look at the trees around them whose crowns were covered in young, tiny bright green leaves.  
  
"Uhm, yes, sir," Elvynd answered rather ineloquently and wrenched his eyes away from the infuriatingly emotionless face of the blond elf at the back of the small group. "Lord Elrond stationed some of the southern and northern patrols over here to make sure that you arrived … safely."  
  
"How very … kind of him," Elladan smiled nervously. "How is our father, Elvynd?"  
  
"He is well, my lord," the other elf answered automatically, a small, gleeful spark flickering to life inside his breast. He didn't need to be a mind-reader to see that all of the elves and/or men in front of him were scared of just how Lord Elrond would react to their arrival. "He has been very solemn lately, however, even the day before yesterday. He … well, he has been very _ worried_."  
  
If there was a way to say the word "worried" in a threatening, deathly way, Elvynd had found it. The sound of Oromë's horn could not have made a bigger impression on Elrond's sons and their companions, and all of them winced noticeably.  
  
"'Worried'?" Aragorn echoed faintly, exchanging mildly horrified looks with his brothers.  
  
"Oh, yes," Elvynd nodded evilly. "_Very _worried." He watched with interest how the twins and Aragorn paled until their faces had assumed the colour of freshly fallen snow, and turned to his silent friend with a wicked glint in his eyes. "Is that not correct, _mellon nín_?"  
  
Isál didn't really seem to have heard what he had said, his eyes glued to the face of the Prince of Mirkwood as if his life depended on it.  
"What is he doing here?" he blurted out, apparently not really realising where he was.  
  
Legolas raised an amused eyebrow, not really knowing if he should feel offended or amused.  
"Excuse me?"  
  
Isál's eyes widened to a rather impressive size as he realised what he just said, and to whom, and a deep red colour began to creep up his face.  
"Uhm, I mean…" he stuttered, obviously mortified. "What … what an unexpected surprise, your Highness! I … we … we thought you were back at your father's palace."  
  
The prince smiled in an innocent way that caused cold shivers to run down the two captains' backs.  
"I was able to convince the king to let me … accompany Lord Elrond's sons and his seneschal. Who knows what kinds of trouble they would have got themselves into otherwise?"  
  
Isál's eyes grew even wider in sceptical astonishment and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but Elvynd's elbow that made unsubtly contact with his ribs made him fall silent almost immediately.  
  
"We owe you and your father a great debt then," the dark haired captain smiled tensely. "Will you be returning to your woods soon, your Highness?"  
  
"Ah," the blond elf waved dismissively, "Not really. I think I will stay for a few seasons."  
  
"A few … seasons. _Seasons_. I see," Elvynd nodded with wide eyes. "I hope you'll … enjoy your stay, my lord."  
  
"Thank you," Legolas smiled loftily. "I am sure I will."  
  
Glorfindel chose this moment to intervene, having apparently decided that it wouldn't help anyone if he allowed the two captains' faces to freeze into masks of permanent anxiety and/or terror.   
  
"Your men, Captain," he began, trying to redirect the two younger elves' attention to the matter at hand, "Will they be staying here or will they accompany us into the valley?"  
  
"My men," Elvynd repeated, appearing confused for a few moments, apparently unable to take his thoughts off the – in his eyes terrifying – prospect of hosting the Prince of Mirkwood in Rivendell for a longer period of time than a few weeks. "Yes. No. I mean, my men will be accompanying us, while Captain Isál's men will remain here."  
  
"I see," Elrohir nodded for Glorfindel. The younger twin turned slightly and looked from his brothers to Legolas and the golden haired elf, quiet joy warring with anxiety on his face. "Well, we shouldn't let them wait then, should we?"  
  
"Definitely not," Glorfindel shook his head. "We have, after all, managed to make the journey in time and without getting involved in anything even remotely dangerous, which is probably some kind of record when travelling in the company of the four of you. It would be a shame to let that amazing feat go to waste now."  
  
"Have you already forgotten our journey to Mirkwood, my friend?" Elladan asked incredulously while Isál and Elvynd went off to find their horses and inform their lieutenants that they would be escorting their lords and their guest to the Last Homely House. "We even made it with nearly two days to spare!"  
  
"You, Elladan, have apparently forgotten that we were attacked by goblins in the Misty Mountains," Glorfindel retorted amusedly. "That isn't what I would call an uneventful journey!"  
  
Elladan retorted something cheeky against which the golden haired elf protested in a mock-serious voice, but Elvynd, who was just returning with his horse and a very depressed Isál in tow, was not really listening. He automatically mounted his horse and moved it to the head of the column while Isál waited for the others to pass him so he could take up the rear, a still rather shocked expression on his face.  
  
The twins were back. Estel was back. Lord Glorfindel was back. All that was in fact something he had hoped for, especially considering that they all seemed to be in one piece. They looked healthy enough, well, except for the young ranger who was looking quite pale, with dark rings under his eyes, which was in fact an exceptionally good thing. If Lord Elrond was lulled into a false sense of security when he laid eyes on them, he might actually get away before his lord's wrath could descend.  
  
Elvynd was strangely comforted by that and smiled cheerfully – for exactly two and a half seconds, the exact amount of time it took him to remember that even though Lord Elrond's sons and Lord Glorfindel were back, they had brought Prince Legolas with them. Every time Prince Legolas and the sons of Elrond – whether of the elven or the human kind – were together or in fact in roughly the same area, _things _happened. Unpleasant things. Painful things. Things he didn't really want to witness, if he was perfectly honest.  
  
With a last dark look at the blond elf who appeared oblivious to the glare that was directed at him Elvynd turned back around and began to guide his horse down the path, deciding to accept his fate with dignity. It was true that trouble followed the sons of Elrond and Prince Legolas wherever they went and only seemed to multiply when they were actually staying somewhere together, but it was also true that it was never boring when they were around. That was something, wasn't it?  
  
With the horrible sinking feeling that they would soon find out whether or not that was indeed enough Elvynd spurred on his horse, and soon the seven riders had disappeared down the path and passed out of sight.  
  
  
  
  
The light of the torches wound through the small town, flickering wildly in the cold evening air. From where she was standing, high above the two rivers that noisily made their way down into the valley from the hilly regions of the north, it looked as if a dragon was slowly slithering upstream, moving right and left from time to time but never straying from its goal.  
  
She cocked her head to the side and squinted slightly, pretending that it was indeed a fire-worm that was leaving her town and not a group of men carrying torches. Even though it was gratifying to know that you ruled an entire town that did your bidding without question, it would have been incomparably more gratifying to really command a dragon.  
  
Ah well, she shrugged as she dismissed the thought. One of these days she might be able to acquire one of these beasts, if, like the old people of this town would have said, if it was the Gods' will. With a cold smile she slowly placed her hands on the railing that encircled the spacious balcony on which she was standing. She would almost have laughed aloud. 'If it was the Gods' will', indeed. In her experience those who waited for the Gods' oh-so-merciful grace and help waited forever, or at least so long that it hardly mattered anymore if the Gods decided to grant it or not.  
  
_She_ would not make that mistake. Her mother had made it once, long ago, and she would be damned if she repeated her mother's mistake.  
  
Then again, she thought calmly, her mother had always been naïve, too. Worse than that, she had been a fool. She, on the other hand, had been called many things in her life, but no one had _ever_ called her a fool. There had been some other rather uncomplimentary expressions some – now mostly dead – people had used to describe her, but she had found them amusing rather than offending. Not amusing enough to spare the lives of the men and women who had been brave (or stupid) enough to utter these insults in the first place, however. She was, after all, no fool, and neither was she weak or possessed an exceptionally forgiving nature.  
  
Now that she thought about it, forgiveness and kindness were two of the things she thoroughly lacked, something that hadn't ever bothered her in the slightest. After all, what were kindness and forgiveness if not other words for weakness?  
  
She was brought out of her musings by the sound of soft footsteps that were purposefully nearing her position, and with an unwilling flick of her head she took her eyes off the torchlight that was moving up the hill to the north of the village and turned around, her dark, embroidered gown swirling around her body. As she had expected it was her seneschal, a rather small man with a sometimes downright annoyingly servile nature and long grey hair that was neatly bound back with a black velvet band.  
  
"Yes?" she asked impatiently. "What is it, Salir?"   
  
"Forgive my intrusion, my lady," the man said subserviently with a deep bow. "You wanted to be informed when the men were leaving. They left five minutes ago and will reach their destination in about half an hour."  
  
"Really?" the woman raised a dark eyebrow mockingly. "I hadn't noticed! Now I know why there is a group of people moving through my town!"  
  
"Forgive me, my lady."  
  
"Maybe later," she answered coldly. "Has Captain Gasur reported yet?"  
  
"Not for a while, my lady," the seneschal shook his head. "His last report…"  
  
"…said that they were suspecting nothing. Yes, I actually read it, Salir. What about the others?"  
  
The grey haired man kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, asking himself just why he hadn't simply sent one of the servants. He had always thought that his lady's husband had been bad when he had been in a bad mood, but he – as everyone else in this town – had found out over the past few years how very wrong that assumption had been. The beautiful woman standing in front of him, the faint silvery moonlight surrounding her slender figure in a way that made her appear unearthly and almost surreal, was far worse in that regard than her late husband had ever been.  
  
"They have made sure that two smaller units of our soldiers accompany the rest of the townsmen, my lady. Not too many of course, but enough to see to it that our goals are met."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that," the young woman retorted calmly. "Even if this little … demonstration is not enough, we will come up with something that won't fail to make the desired impression. Sooner or later they will give in. They won't have any other choice."  
  
Salir inclined his head in acquiescence, but reluctantly raised his eyes to meet his mistress' only a moment later.   
"What about the Elves, my lady?"  
  
"What about them?" the woman shrugged emotionlessly.   
  
"The Lord of Rivendell will not stand idly by when he hears about all this, lady. He will interfere."  
  
"He wouldn't dare!" his lady hissed, anger contorting her face. "He wouldn't dare attack us!"  
  
"It is not his concern," the grey haired seneschal admitted slowly, careful not to say anything that might incense the young woman even further. "At least not directly. Technically, it is none of the Elves' business."  
  
"But when has that ever stopped one of their kind?" the woman sighed softly before she took a deep breath and nodded slowly, a calm mask sliding over her face. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Until then, the captains are to proceed as planned." Salir bowed and nodded, and she added, "You may leave now. Make sure that nobody disturbs me tonight."  
  
"Yes, my lady," the older man answered immediately and was about to turn around to follow his lady's command when a thought seemed to strike him, making him halt in mid-motion. He seemed to struggle with himself for a few moments, but then he finally seemed to pluck up his courage and opened his mouth. "My lady," he began haltingly, looking at the woman with imploring eyes, "Are you sure all this is really … necessary?"  
  
The young woman in front of his cocked her head to the side and smiled sweetly, but her eyes suddenly looked as hard and cold as gems.   
"If I didn't know better, I would think you were questioning my orders, Salir."  
  
"Never, my lady!" the seneschal shook his head quickly. "I would never do that! But … but does it really have to be this way?"   
  
"This is my town," his mistress answered coldly. "_My _town. I will not allow anyone to take it from me, no matter who or what they may be. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
"Yes, my lady," Salir bowed his head quickly, an unreadable expression on his face. "I beg your pardon."  
  
The young woman merely stared at him with an expressionless, cold-eyed gaze which the grey haired seneschal found hard to bear. He gave his lady a last deep bow and turned around, disappearing out of the door as quickly and silently as possible. The dark-clad woman looked after him until he had closed the dark wooden doors behind him before she turned back around and lightly placed her hands on the wrought-iron railing.  
  
For a long time she didn't move and remained where she was, standing on the spacious platform overlooking the town like a carved, beautiful marble statue. No emotions or feelings could be gauged from her face while she stared straight ahead, apparently oblivious to anything but the dark valley spreading out beneath her feet.  
  
Half an hour later, when thick clouds were just sliding across the moon, an eerie, red-golden light flickered over the skyline in the north-east, illuminating the darkness that lay over the lands. It disappeared almost immediately only to flare up a moment later, even stronger and brighter than before.  
  
In a matter of minutes it had grown until it seemed to fill the entire horizon with its flickering golden light, and had anyone been there to see it, they would have noticed the bright smile that spread over the young woman's face as soon the light appeared in the darkness.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...  
**

**  
  
  
  
  
**_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
Ethuil (S.) - 'Spring', the first 'month' of the Reckoning of Rivendell. On a modern calendar, the time between the (modern) 29th of March and the (modern) 22nd of May  
Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
yéni (Q., pl. of yén) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
  
  
  
A/N II:  
I have lately been looking into all the interesting calendars Tolkien devised, and have to my shame discovered that Yestarë would (probably) not have fallen on the modern 6th of April as I had thought. Yes, I know: Tolkien states in the Tale of Years that the Elves' New Year was on the 6th of April. ("And on the day of the New Year of the Elves, Celeborn and Thranduil met in the midst of the forest; and they renamed Mirkwood _Eryn Lasgalen_, the Wood of Greenleaves.") But the dates he gives us are according to the Shire Calendar, which is not directly comparable to the modern calendar: "Though actually the yestarë of New Reckoning occurred earlier than in the Calendar of Imladris, in which it corresponded more or less with Shire April 6." (The Return of the King, Appendix D). Astron (or April) 6th, however, would be the modern 28th of March, since the Shire Calendar began about ten days before our modern one. •grimaces• So, that's what I think. If you can correct me, don't hesitate to send me an email and tell me. I guess there are about a thousand loopholes in that theory. •g•  
  
Oh, and I found an answer to that other question I asked myself in Chapter 4 of "Everlasting", namely whether or not Turgon was dark haired or would have been golden haired like his grandmother Indis. He was dark haired, though. •g• I found it when I looked up Finarfin (Fëanor's half-brother, Fingolfin's brother and therefore Turgon's uncle) in the appendix of "The Silmarillion", where it says: "Alone among the Noldorin princes he Finarfin and his descendants had golden hair, derived from his mother Indis, who was a Vanyarin Elf." Before you say it: Yes, I am a horrible freak. •g•  
  
  
  
  
_ ** So, once again the stage is set. There's nothing more relaxing than a bit of foreboding, don't you think? •g• They really, really should have stayed in Mirkwood. If Elrond doesn't kill them, the new set of villains will. •evil grin• We will find out soon, since they're getting back to Rivendell in the next chapter! Yay them! I'll post either on Monday or Tuesday; I don't think I can make it any sooner, I'm sorry. I'm having an exam coming up, and really don't think that anything else than 6/7 days between chapters is feasible. Oh, and yes: Reviews are still VERY welcome. I'll even beg for them, see: Review? Please??  
  
  
**


	2. Homecoming

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:  
  
Ah, it's so nice to be back. I had really missed the whole writing-posting-being happy about reviews routine... •g• Thank you all SO MUCH for your very nice reviews. It's nice to hear that so many of you have been looking forward to this story. I told Aragorn and Legolas about it, and they did NOT understand. •g• I wonder why? •innocent smile•  
  
It's very kind of you to sympathise with poor Elvynd and Isál. Isál might have been slightly impolite, but the poor elf was in shock. It's only understandable, isn't it? •evil grin• And you're right, of course, our intrepid heroes aren't TOO thrilled about getting back home. They might be on to something though, since Elrond most definitely is NOT a happy camper right about now. Then again, can you blame him after all that's happened? I can't, but then again, I'm evil, or at least my alter ego is. •g•  
  
I've been asked a few times now whether I was planning a story in Lothlórien. I have to regretfully inform you that I am not, however. For one, I am seriously damaged by the movie versions of Haldir and Celeborn and could probably not even begin to do their characters justice with THOSE imagines floating around in my head, but the more pressing reason is that ... well, at least Legolas just didn't go there.  
You'll remember that, in FotR, he said that "...It is long since any of my own folk journeyed hither back to the land whence we wandered in ages long ago (...) but we hear that Lothlórien is not yet deserted..."(The Fellowship of the Ring, Book Two, Chapter 6: Lothlórien). It is debatable how much time "long ago" is for an elf, but I doubt that Legolas would consider 65 years a long amount of time.  
  
So, that's my interpretation of that sentence and several others that can be found in FotR, Book 2, Chapters 6/7, and therefore I won't write a story with both of them in Lothlórien. I'm a little weird with timelines and canon and all that, don't tell me. •sheepish smile• If you can think of a passage that contradicts my assumptions, please don't hesitate to send me an email and let me know. It's been some time since I've read FotR, and I therefore might remember it all wrong. Thanks. •g•  
  
  
Alright, enough of that! Chapter 2 is ready and waiting for you, and I assume that these things are of only remote interest to most of you. •g• So, what do we have ... a VERY displeased and annoyed elf lord, a little bit more foreboding, a pair of nervous elven twins, an even more nervous ranger, a gloomy reborn elf, and an elven prince whose attempts to lighten the mood are quite in vain. Just a big, happy family, eh? •g•  
  
Have fun and review, please!  
  
  
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Chapter 2  
  
  
Ten paces. Turn left. Twelve paces. Turn left. Four paces. Avoid the desk. Avoid the armchairs. Three more paces. Turn left again. Avoid the bookshelves. Stop at the picture window to look down on the dark valley. Scowl at the darkening valley. Turn left.  
  
Elrond shook his head, therefore interrupting his internal monologue. He could remember few times when he had felt so anxious. In fact, he was rather certain that he had felt this particular kind of anxiety only four times before: During the twins' birth, during Arwen's birth, when a ten-year-old Aragorn had caught a mysterious disease and had almost died, and during the approximately three and a half seconds after he had proposed to Celebrían.  
  
He smiled at the last memory, some of his unease slowly disappearing. Never before in his whole life had three and a half seconds appeared so long – to him they had appeared longer than it had taken Turgon to build Gondolin.  
  
During the few seconds between his falling silent after stammering his marriage proposal to a rather confused-looking Celebrían (he had needed about ten minutes to form a coherent sentence) and her taking him by the ears and kissing him he had been firmly convinced that she would either start laughing uproariously or would order her father's guards to dismember him. Up to this day, more than 2800 years later, he was positively astounded that Galadriel's and Celeborn's beautiful daughter had actually married him, and for the first few centuries of their married life he had in fact sometimes awoken in the night, afraid that it had all been a dream.  
  
These memories from happier days had served to pacify his anxiety and dark mood slightly, something Elrond was by no means willing to accept. He had worked hard to get into this kind of mood, after all – something that was not easy for a calm and tranquil elf like him – and he was highly unwilling to allow anything to interfere with that. Not even a memory of his long-departed wife.  
  
With a determined nod he turned away from the window and the swiftly setting sun and took up his pacing again, trying hard to remember all the reasons why he had been so upset in the first place. There were a lot of them, and reciting them in his head took quite a bit longer than he would have thought.  
  
Aragorn had left Lord Thranduil's palace – no, he had stolenout of the palace like a common thief. Avoid the bookshelf. The twins and Glorfindel – Glorfindel! – had done the same, with the help of young Celylith. Young Celylith should have known better. Aragorn should have known better, the twins should have known better, and Glorfindel should _definitely _ have known better. Avoid the candlestick. Turn left.  
  
The dark haired elf felt how the mixture of fear, rage, worry and indignation once again began to rise and grow inside of him. That hadn't been enough for his sons and best friend, no. Because disregarding the laws of hospitality and all but openly insulting King Thranduil hadn't been enough, the four of them had nearly got themselves killed – and from what he had heard, several times each. They hadn't been home for New Year's Day. Avoid the armchair. They had behaved reckless, stupid, rash, thoughtless, careless and a thousand things in between. He had spent days worrying himself half to death after he had received Lord Thranduil's letter explaining what had happened. They could have been maimed, they could have been _killed_, they could have…  
  
The Lord of Rivendell narrowed his eyes and wheeled around, to the left and into the direction of the desk and the picture window behind it. Unfortunately he had underestimated the distance that still lay between himself and the wooden desk, and so not even his quick reflexes could prevent him from colliding with one of the desk's carved feet.  
  
Sharp pain shot up his leg, and a vicious curse escaped him before he even knew that he had opened his mouth. For a moment Elrond was sorely tempted to grab his injured foot and hop around on one leg like a stork, but before he could make up his mind about it a voice cut through his silent study that made him very glad that he had resisted that urge.  
  
"Cursing like that is unbecoming an elf lord, my friend. And so is pacing, I believe."  
  
For a few moments Elrond felt another very vivid urge, namely to take up the large, unusually coloured rock he used as a paperweight and throw it at the elf who had so smugly interrupted his pacing. One of his hands was already moving to grab the large stone when a part of his mind reminded him of the fact that throwing rocks at other elves was most likely also unbecoming an elf lord, and so he ignored that impulse and turned around, inwardly still cursing darkly.  
  
The relief he felt at having resisted the temptation grew even more when he saw who the other elf was. Erestor could be annoying sometimes, but he really didn't want to know what the rest of Rivendell's population would say if he actually threw a rock at his chief advisor.  
  
"How very perceptive of you, my Lord Erestor," the half-elf ground out between still gritted teeth. "Mocking another lord, however, is also unbecoming an elf lord, I believe."  
  
"Not according to Glorfindel's rules, my lord," the dark haired advisor pointed out calmly. "He may be a nuisance, but he isn't stupid enough to create rules which he does not intend to follow himself. 'If there is ample reason for mocking a fellow lord, do so to your heart's content.'" Erestor's forehead creased in thought for a moment. "That was Rule 38, I believe."  
  
"You know them by heart?" Elrond asked incredulously while he leaned back against his desk to take some weight off his still smarting foot. "Not even Glorfindel knows them by heart!"  
  
"There is a very old saying, my friend," Erestor smiled. "'Know thy enemy.'"  
  
"Sometimes I wonder about you two. I really do," Elrond shook his head in amusement. "If I didn't know better, I would think that the two of you would love to kill each other."  
  
"We would," the dark haired elf nodded calmly.  
  
"You can try to tell that to someone who doesn't know you as well as I do," the other elf said with a small smile. "You are friends, and would do all you can to protect each other."  
  
"Oh yes," Erestor retorted ironically. "I would risk my best quill in his defence."  
  
"What about ink?"  
  
"I would have to think about that carefully," the advisor frowned as if in deep thought. "I would sacrifice most of them, but the dark blue one I got from Lothlórien … no, I wouldn't risk that one. Not even for Glorfindel."  
  
"Good ink is hard to come by," Elrond nodded calmly.   
  
"Indeed. Especially the dark blue variety."  
  
"But we digress, my friend," Elrond reminded the other elf with a small frown. "I assume you came here for a reason?"  
  
"Yes, of course, my lord," Erestor retorted, appearing rather surprised that someone would think that he would do anything without having a good reason for it. "The sentries stationed at the entrances to the valley have sent word. A group of riders is approaching, among them your sons and Lord Glorfindel. They will be here soon."  
  
"I know," the half-elven lord nodded, his eyes looking strangely vacant, as if he was looking at something only he could see.   
  
Erestor didn't say anything but merely inclined his head ever so slightly, more than accustomed to his lord's smaller or even bigger premonitions. If Elrond told you something would happen, it usually did, too. Erestor was a scholar, a person who trusted the written word and solid facts more than some half-baked feelings, but if his lord and friend told him Sauron had seen the error of his ways and wanted to open a flower shop, he wouldn't laugh. He would get a _mallorn_-seedling as a Welcome-to-the-good-side-present.  
  
"They are all alright then?"  
  
"Oh yes," Elrond nodded tensely. "They are just fine. But they won't be for long. Just wait until I get my hands on them."  
  
"I'm not sure if 'You are not allowed to kill your heirs without a very good reason' is in fact one of Glorfindel's Things-a-proper-elf-lord-does-and-does-not-do-rules, but I _am _sure that it ought to be."  
  
"'Without a very good reason'?" the dark haired elf lord repeated incredulously. "Without a very good _reason_? I would start reciting all the _extremely _good reasons I have for wanting to kill them if it wouldn't take more time than I can spare in this century!"   
  
"Surely you exaggerate, my lord," Erestor tried to calm his so unusually agitated friend. "You must also consider that…"  
  
"Exaggerate? Me?" Elrond arched an eyebrow in such an incredulous way that it impressed even his chief advisor. "I do not exaggerate, Erestor! I never exaggerate! I haven't exaggerated this past age!"  
  
"Now you exaggerate."  
  
If looks had possessed the power to kill, Erestor would have dropped dead right then and there. The dark haired elf carefully averted his eyes and stopped himself from actually checking whether or not Elrond's fiery glare had burnt a third eye socket into his forehead. Sometimes the intensity of his friend's _look _took even him by surprise, and he had known him for a long, long time.  
  
"What I was trying to say, my lord," Erestor said as calmly as an elf being speared by the _look _could, "that there are always at least two sides to a story. You know as well as I do that your sons did what they did to save their friend. Glorfindel would never have allowed them to leave the palace unless they'd had a very, very good reason and no other choice."   
  
"Are you trying to justify their behaviour?" Elrond asked with narrowed eyes. "They could have died! All of them! Have you _read _Lord Thranduil's letter, my Lord Erestor? Do you know how narrowly they escaped torment and death? Do you know how incredibly lucky they were? If the Valar hadn't shown so much mercy and kindness, my sons and friend would be dead now, along with the Prince of Mirkwood! I don't know about you, but I think _that _is good enough a reason to want to kill them!"  
  
"_Mellon nín_," Erestor shook his head with a small smile, "You are trying to convince yourself of that fact, not me. You know that they didn't do it out of wilful disobedience. They did it to save Prince Legolas, who is dear to them like a brother and dear to you like a son. If they had stayed in Mirkwood, they would most likely never have found the prince, and he would be dead now. They helped the citizens of a town to free their home and have perhaps even prevented a war that would have engulfed all of us, but what is more important is that they saved hundreds of lives. Even if they hadn't and it would have been only Prince Legolas' life at stake, it would have been worth it. Every single life is worth it, my friend."  
  
Elrond's _look _became even darker.  
"Whose side are you on anyway?!"  
  
Erestor merely looked at the other elf with a small smile on his lips, and finally Elrond bowed his head minutely.  
"You are right of course, my friend," he told the dark haired advisor. "I know they did it only to save Prince Legolas, it's just that…"   
  
"You were worried. I know," Erestor nodded. "Everybody in Imladris knows. I swear that at night one could hear your pacing for miles."   
  
"I cannot stand it," the half-elf admitted softly. "I thought I had got used to my sons risking their lives, especially after … after their mother journeyed to the havens, but now I see that I have been deceiving myself. I cannot sit idly by while they are endangering themselves! Since Estel's arrival twenty years ago it has become even harder. With the twins I know that their elven blood aids them, but Aragorn … he does not have that advantage. His Númenórean blood is but a small comfort. Too small a comfort. Much too small."  
  
"You cannot protect your children forever, my lord," Erestor shook his head sadly. "No matter whether they are of the Firstborn race or not. They are adults and make their own decisions, as it is their right."  
  
"That doesn't matter," the other elf shook his head as well. "They will always be my children, even a hundred or a thousand years from now. I don't want to lose them, Erestor."  
  
"To keep them here forever is no answer, my friend. To force them to stay here or anywhere where they are protected at all times would ensure that you do lose them as certainly as if you drove a knife through their hearts. You cannot treat them like the children they are not."  
  
"No, I cannot," Elrond admitted softly. "I know that I cannot, and that makes everything even worse. Yet I have to admit that the thought of sending them to Lórien to their grandmother so that she can confine them to a _talan _has never before sounded so tempting."  
  
"That wouldn't be very fair to the Lord and the Lady," Erestor smiled thinly. "I believe that after a decade or so they would pack their belongings and leave for the Havens on the fastest horses they can find."   
  
"You might be right there, my friend, you might be right," Elrond smiled as well, a little hesitantly. "Celebrían would never forgive me if I allowed our offspring to drive her parents to the Havens. So that is unfortunately not an option."  
  
"You could also drug them senseless and keep them like that for a few years," Erestor offered earnestly. "That should keep them out of trouble for a while."  
  
Elrond shot his dark haired advisor a questioning look that was met by a completely unaffected, emotionless stare. Not even after all these millennia he was able to tell with absolute certainty when Erestor was joking and when he was not. Then again, considering that Erestor seldom joked in public or showed any other signs of open amusement, he was most likely serious, which was seriously disconcerting now that he thought about it.  
  
"An … interesting proposal," Elrond nodded calmly, as if he was indeed entertaining such ideas. "I don't believe I have enough ingredients for sleeping potions, however. Besides, I would have to force-feed them. They know from experience not to eat or drink anything I offer them in such a situation."  
  
"Highly unfortunate," the other elf nodded. "We will have to think about that sometime. We cannot allow children like them to outsmart us, after all." He paused for a moment. "Speaking of outsmarting people: The situation to the south…"  
  
"Yes," the Lord of Rivendell nodded, immediately concentrating on the matter that had been raised. "Do you still believe that we should send a delegation to look into the circumstances there?"  
  
"I do, my lord," Erestor inclined his head without hesitation. "Everything is about to get out of hand there. I know that it is not something that concerns us directly, but…"  
  
"Yes," Elrond nodded. "Things could go ill, and we need someone to determine what exactly is going on there. The reports one hears range from unlikely to ludicrous."  
  
"I agree," the dark haired advisor agreed quietly. "I think it would be best if you raised this issue during the next council meeting and…"   
  
Erestor never got to finish the sentence because a faint noise could be heard in the distance, sounding remotely like a horde of shouting orcs. After a few moments, however, the two elves realised that it was in fact not orcs or anything of the like, but rather a lot of voices raised in greeting. In the beginning it was rather faint, but it rose quickly until it was so clearly audible that you didn't even need elven ears to hear it.   
  
Without sparing Erestor a single glance Elrond turned back to the window and took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the valley below him. From where he was standing he could clearly survey the path leading up to gates of Rivendell. There were quite a few elves crowding the road at the moment, even it wasn't nearly as many as yesterday. That was something that was by no means unusual, of course. The valley of Imladris itself was a safe haven, and all of its inhabitants were welcome and free to wander through it at leisure.   
  
What was unusual, however, was the fact that the assembled elves crowded around seven horses that looked torn between long-sufferance and annoyance. The riders stopped for a few seconds to talk to the guards and the other elves who were surrounding them before they rode on and disappeared through the gates. The elves who had been crowding around them followed them into the main courtyard while the guards remained at their posts, the bright smiles on their faces easily visible even from here.   
  
"They are here," Erestor's voice stated softly next to the half-elven lord, who in turn did his best not to jump in surprise. He truly hadn't heard the other elf step next to him, so busy had he been thanking Ilúvatar and all the Valar for protecting his sons and the others.  
  
"It would appear so," Elrond nodded as calmly as he could, which was in truth not very calmly. He felt like jumping up and down with joy or alternatively running down the stairs to strangle his wayward children and most decidedly not like speaking calmly to another person.  
  
Erestor looked fondly at his longtime friend, a small, quickly hidden smile flittering over his face.  
"Why don't you go and greet them, my lord?"  
  
Elrond turned to look his dark haired advisor in the eye, to equal parts hesitant and amused.  
"Is that your official advice, my Lord Erestor?"  
  
The smile the councillor had been trying to hide made a reappearance as Erestor smiled openly at his half-elven friend.  
"Yes, my lord. It is."  
  
There was not much he could retort to this, and so Elrond went to greet his sons and their companions.

  
  
Never before had he felt such sympathy with a mouse which was being cornered by a cat, Elrohir decided matter-of-factly. Or a deer being cornered by a pack of wolves. Or a rabbit being cornered by a fox, or…   
  
Before his mind could come up with even more depressing comparisons, the dark haired twin forced his thoughts away from that topic. 'Think of something else,' he told himself firmly. 'Think of the way the _mellyrn _glow in the moonlight whenever you visit Lórien. Think of the sound of the waterfalls beneath your windows. _Don't _think of the colour _ada's _face will assume when you'll tell him what you've done, or the way he will arch his eyebrows, or…'   
  
With an inward snort of disgust the elf admitted defeat. The chances of him taking his mind off the present situation were as slim as the chances of a dwarf walking past a pile of mithril. Then again, he asked himself reasonably, what had he expected? They were riding up to the gates of Rivendell and were only about a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards away from them, so how could he be anything but a nervous wreck?  
  
The younger twin shot a quick look at his brothers who were riding next to him, stiff as statues and looking quite a bit like delinquents on their way to be executed – a comparison that wasn't even that far from the truth now that he thought about it. He was rather sure that he hadn't seen Elladan so stony-faced for … well, at least half a _yén_. Elladan might be prone to flying into sudden fits of fury, but when his twin was truly anxious about and/or afraid of something, he didn't get loud. He got so quiet and withdrawn that he could actually give a marble statue a run for its money.  
  
Aragorn, on the other hand, was quite another story. The young man was much paler than it was his wont, and his eyes were darting from left to right in a way that reminded the elf disconcertingly of a cornered animal. Elrohir was sure that, with time and experience, the man would learn to hide things even from those who knew him well, but right now he could read him like an open book, especially when he was worried about something. And at the moment Estel was _extremely _ worried about their father's reaction, or at least so it would appear.  
  
Not that he could blame his human brother, the younger twin thought glumly. Even though he had to admit that Legolas was most likely right and that he wouldn't kill them – at least not immediately, a wry voice inside his head whispered softly – he himself was not exactly ecstatic with joy upon returning to their father with the tale of their deeds either.  
  
Elrohir's musings continued like this for quite some time, or rather for exactly as long as it took them to reach the gates leading to the main courtyard of Rivendell. He had been so concentrated on his inner monologue that he hadn't even realised that there was a quite a large group of elves waiting for them – something that shouldn't really have surprised him. The sentries guarding the entrances to the valley would have sent word of their imminent arrival, and if there was one thing he had learnt a long time ago, it was that news travelled fast in Imladris.  
  
With self-restraint and control he didn't even know he possessed he put all other thoughts out of his mind and greeted the elves crowding around their horses. He was, after all, truly glad to be back home, and seldom had he been so happy to see his friends. Even the small group of healers standing close to the right gatepost received one of his brighter smiles, which was a rather obvious proof for his happiness – and besides, it had never hurt anyone to be polite to those you considered your adversaries, if not your mortal enemies.  
  
A lot sooner than he had thought possible they had crossed the gates and had entered the courtyard. As soon as he left the dark, wooden gates behind that were still decorated with wreaths of spring flowers Elrohir felt how all the troubles and worries that had been preying on his mind lessened and seemed to fall away. No matter how often this happened it never ceased to astonish him, and now as always he closed his eyes and allowed the peace that always seemed to lie over his home to wash over his senses.  
  
He didn't really know if it was his father's power or not, but entering Imladris always felt like entering a safe haven after having had to weather a bad storm. Peace and calm seemed to envelop all those who crossed the threshold of the Last Homely House, and even though it was a different kind of peace than the tranquillity that filled his grandparents' realm, it was at least as welcome and soothing to him, if not more so.  
  
With a small smile adorning his face, Elrohir finally opened his eyes, deciding that he didn't care in the slightest if their father really did kill him. If he died here, surrounded by the comfort and beauty of his home, he would die a happy elf. Strangely comforted by that rather morbid thought, he followed Glorfindel and Elvynd over to the stables, all the while trying to answer as many of the questions that were shouted at him as he could.  
  
It took him quite some time to persuade the elves around him to make some room so that he could actually dismount, but finally he managed to do so. He was quite sure that he had trodden on the toes of at least five elves by the time he managed to get off his horse and make his way over to the open stable doors. Nobody really seemed to mind, however, something that was a rather good sign. If the inhabitants of Rivendell were so decidedly happy to see them, there was the rather realistic chance that their father would be equally relieved.  
  
A few minutes and a lot of shoving his way through the still excited crowd later, Elrohir had managed to deliver his rather annoyed horse into the hands of a groom and had pushed through the elves surrounding him. He trod on another pair of feet and inadvertently rammed his elbow into the ribs of an unseen person before he managed to make his way over to Glorfindel and the others, all of whom looked quite a bit overwhelmed by the attention their arrival was creating.  
  
"Is this a good sign or a bad sign?" he heard Legolas ask, one of the wood-elf's eyebrows arched high in something that was either amusement or faint worry.  
  
"This?" Aragorn asked and made a small motion with one of his hands. "A good sign. Well, that's what I think, anyway."  
  
"It is a good sign," Elladan nodded emphatically. "I am sure it is. What do you think, Glorfindel?"  
  
The golden haired elf raised an eyebrow in obvious amusement.   
"I think I will leave you to your delusions, young ones, while I compose my last will."  
  
"For a person who has survived his own death you are depressingly negative," Elrohir commented darkly.  
  
"You call it negative, Elrohir. I, however, call it realistic," Glorfindel shrugged with a small grin, the last rays of the setting sun making his hair gleam like spun gold. Before the younger twin could retort something, the elf lord turned to the two young captains who had escorted them here. "Thank you for your assistance, Captains. It is greatly appreciated."  
  
Elvynd smiled and nodded, giving them a small bow. When the dark haired captain realised that Isál was doing nothing of that sort, he thrust his elbow rather forcefully into his friend's ribs. Isál finally wrenched his eyes away from the gates and mimicked his friend's actions, a slightly distracted expression on his face.  
  
"It was our pleasure, my lords," Elvynd answered for the two of them while he shot his friend a dark look that would have made their lord proud. "You will be joining us on patrol soon then, my Lord Glorfindel?"   
  
"Aye," the elf lord nodded with a small smile, "As soon as I have … conferred with our lord."  
  
Elvynd bit back a wry grin and bowed his head once more. He didn't need to be told what Lord Glorfindel was really thinking: If Lord Elrond didn't cut him into pieces or fed him to a pack of starving wolves. The chances for that were rather good, by the way.  
  
"I see," he nodded seriously. "We will be seeing you then, my lords."  
  
Before one of others could retort something, Elvynd had turned on his heel and had grabbed Isál's arm, insistently tugging on it. In a matter of half a second the two captains had disappeared in the crowd, leaving behind four elves and a man in various states of amusement and confusion.  
  
"You know," Elladan commented thoughtfully, "I almost had the feeling that they were trying to get away from us as quickly as possible."   
  
"You know the saying about the rats abandoning the sinking ship?" Aragorn retorted wryly.  
  
"Don't _say _something like that!" Elrohir admonished his human brother while they walked – or rather were pushed – over to the steps leading up to the front door of the main house.  
  
"Say something like what?" a musical voice asked, and the five of them came to a sudden stop. After a second the voice's owner became apparent: To the left of the front door stood a lithe elf with fair hair who was smiling brightly at them. "Or is it a secret?"  
  
"Lindir!" Elrohir exclaimed and moved forward to clasp the other's forearm. "It is good to see you, my friend!"  
  
"And you, Elrohir," the fair haired elf retorted with a smile while he returned the handshake, his eyes darting over their dust-covered figures before they widened slightly when they came to rest on Legolas. "All of you. I thank Ilúvatar and the Valar for your quick and safe return."  
  
"Thank you, _mellon nín_," Elladan nodded. "Are you here to greet us or to warn us?"  
  
"Probably a little of both," Lindir admitted wryly.   
  
"Your positive attitude is overwhelming," Aragorn said dourly.  
  
"Thank you, Estel," the elf smiled sweetly. He gave all of them what he probably thought to be an encouraging smile and nodded into the direction of the doors. "Go on, my lords. Lord Elrond is waiting for you inside."  
  
"He is?" Elladan asked weakly.  
  
"He is," Lindir nodded laconically. "Go already. And after you have greeted him, you must come and tell me everything that has happened to you! I am composing a new ballad to greet the new year and could use a little inspiration."  
  
"Let me tell you one thing, Lindir," Glorfindel told the fair haired elf seriously. "Unless you are planning to make your audience run away screaming in terror, you don't want to know."  
  
The other elf failed to look properly impressed.  
"I think I will take my chances, my lord. If nothing else, I am sure that it will be highly entertaining! I even have a title for it: Glaer Alidhor. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"  
  
"The Lay of Recklessness?" Legolas asked, suppressing a huge grin. "How ... inspiring."  
  
"If you do that, Lindir, we will have to do something childish and painful to you," Elrohir warned the fair haired elf. "We would hate to do it, but we would."  
  
"We will see," Lindir smiled, unaffected by that threat. "Quit stalling and go, my lords. I await your account of the events with anticipation."  
  
Aragorn shot the fair haired elf a dark look but took a deep breath and nodded.  
"You are right, Lindir." He turned to the other elves. "Let us go then. I am sure that standing here all evening won't change anything – at least not for the better."  
  
"Very well," Elladan nodded as well and gave Lindir an exaggerated bow. "Farewell then, _mellon nín_. Do us one last favour and say something nice about us when you write our epitaph, will you?"  
  
"Of course, my lord," Lindir all but grinned. "I will try to come up with something. I am sure there are some people who can still remember your earliest days."  
  
The twins glared at the fair haired elf, but before they could say something, Aragorn had grabbed both their arms and dragged them forward over the threshold of their home. Now it was Aragorn who was being glared at, which was something that didn't impress the young ranger in the slightest. Glorfindel and Legolas traded amused looks while the three brothers glared at each other (none of them seemed to be very affected by the others' looks), but all thoughts of amusement or merriment faded from their minds when their eyes had adjusted to the dim half-darkness of the house. It was still too early for candles or torches to be lit, and so it took even the elves some time until they could see their surroundings clearly.  
  
Eventually their eyes did adjust, however, and they could fully appreciate the sight in front of them. The entrance hall was empty as far as they could see, and the shadows of the candlesticks and carved pillars cast strange shadows onto the tiles of the floor. It was a little strange that the hall was devoid of all other elves who were usually filling this hall as well as the rest of the house, but they were most likely either discreet or wise enough to keep away from here today.  
  
A sense of peace and a certain serenity filled the light, airy space, and if their eyes hadn't been so keen, they could have thought that the figure standing at the bottom of the stairs whcih led up to the upper levels of the house was a statue, a part of the decorations that attributed to the tranquil interior. As things were, however, they could all see that the person standing there was in fact not a statue. The dark robes the elf was wearing rustled with every soft breath he took, but that was about the only sign that indicated that he was in fact alive. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on the front door, and absolutely no emotions could be gauged from his face.   
  
Glorfindel gulped inwardly and did his best to melt into the walls. This wasn't the worst case scenario, but it was rather close.  
  
The twins and Aragorn immediately stopped glaring at each other and straightened slightly, uneasy smiles on their faces. Elrohir and Aragorn looked pointedly at their older brother, who merely glared at them but in the end grudgingly accepted his fate. With a last dark look Elladan turned back around to the still motionless figure in front of the stairs and gave him a bright smile.  
  
"Good evening, _ada_."  
  
For a few moments it was silent, and just when the five of them thought that they would receive no answer, the elf standing in front of them cocked his head slightly to the side in either amusement or mockery.   
"Good evening, Elladan."  
  
That wasn't exactly the answer any of them had hoped for, and the brothers traded a desperate look. This was not good.  
  
"Well," Elrohir said finally. "We are back."  
  
"That I can see," Elrond commented sarcastically. "Are all of you in one piece?"  
  
"Yes," Aragorn confirmed as merrily as he could. "We are just fine."  
  
"And whose definition of 'fine' would that be?" the half-elven lord asked with a raised eyebrow. "If it is yours, my son, please forgive me for failing to be suitably impressed."  
  
Aragorn couldn't think of anything to retort to this, and so he elected to remain silent, which was most likely the wisest course of action. Elrond's eyes travelled over the shame-faced figures of his sons and Glorfindel before they came to rest on Legolas, who was right now rather successfully pretending to be one of the carved pillars.  
  
"Well met, son of Thranduil," the dark haired elf inclined his head. "I have to admit that I am somewhat … surprised to see you here."   
  
"Well met, _hîr nín_," Legolas repeated and bowed slightly in respect. "I bear greetings from King Thranduil. He sends his kindest regards and hopes that his messages find you in good health."  
  
"That remains to be seen," Elrond muttered softly. "Thank you, young prince," he added in a louder tone of voice. "Of course you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. We can send word to your home with one of the carrier pigeons to inform your father of your safe arrival."  
  
The fair haired prince inclined his head once more.   
"Thank you, my lord. You are most kind."  
  
Elrond only gave him a benevolent nod before he returned his attention to the three elves and the human standing in front of him. All of them were currently staring at the tips of their boots in fascination.  
"So," he finally said. "You are back."  
  
Four mute nods were his only answer.  
  
"Would one of you care to explain where you have been these past few months?"  
  
"In Rhûn, _ada_," Elladan explained quickly. His brothers, Glorfindel and even Legolas nodded fervently. "To be exact, in Baredlen, a town in the shadow of the Ered Dhuir, one of the foothills of the Mountains of Rhûn."  
  
"I know," Elrond nodded calmly. "Lord Thranduil was so kind to describe everything in his letters. In detail."  
  
Legolas almost winced openly. That was something about which he would have to talk with his father. Aragorn on the other hand _did _wince openly. This was not good at all. He had seen his elven father in various stages of anger or even rage, and he had prepared himself for such an outburst. To see the elf so disconcertingly calm and composed was something that made him far more anxious than an angry tirade ever could have.  
  
It was silent for some more moments before Elladan finally took a deep breath and allowed his shoulders to drop.  
"Please, father, stop this." He looked up, grey eyes fixed anxiously on the older elf's face. "Yell at us, or lecture us on our reckless stupidity, or even have us locked in one of the cellars, but stop looking at us like this, I beg you! If you want to punish one of us, punish me. It was all my fault."  
  
Before Elrond could even open his mouth, Elrohir's head had shot up and he fixed his twin with a half-confused and half-incredulous look.   
"Don't be silly, Elladan. We all know that's not true."   
  
"Elrohir is right, my lord," Glorfindel said softly and took a step forward. "It is not Elladan's fault. If there is someone to blame, it is me."  
  
"You?" Aragorn asked incredulously. "It was I who sneaked out of the palace first! If I hadn't, you wouldn't have had to disobey King Thranduil, wouldn't have followed me, wouldn't have got into trouble and would certainly not have been wounded!"  
  
"Oh yes?" Legolas asked, turning to shoot a dark look at his human friend. "Well, it was me who got himself captured by Reran and his men, therefore prompting you to sneak out of the palace in the first place!"  
  
"So the blame lies with you?" Aragorn challenged.  
  
"Certainly!"  
  
Aragorn and also the twins were about to say more when they were interrupted by the sound of Elrond clearing his throat. Rather startled by the sudden interruption the five of them turned to look at him, apparently already having forgotten that he was even in the same room.   
  
"Excuse me for interrupting this fascinating debate," the half-elven lord began politely, a strange, emotional timbre in his voice. "But you seem to be under a misconception here." He looked at the serious, anxious faces in front of him, his eyes wandering from the twins over Aragorn to Glorfindel and Legolas. "You seem to be under the impression that I blame you for what happened."  
  
"Of course you do!" Elladan exclaimed, running a hand through this long, dark tresses. "How could you not? We failed to protect them, either of them!"  
  
"I do not need to be protected, Elladan," Legolas said softly next to him. "I already have Celylith to obsess over my safety; I do not need you to do the same."  
  
"I second that!" Aragorn nodded furiously. "Apart from the fact that you couldn't have protected me even if I had wanted you to, I did _ not _want you to! I am an adult and more than capable of looking after myself."  
  
His elven brothers didn't even grace that with an answer, and Aragorn might have used even more unambiguous words to emphasise his point if Glorfindel hadn't seized this moment to speak, his blue eyes dark and troubled.   
"Then what does that say about me?" he asked no one in particular. "I failed to protect any of you. You three were almost killed, and because of my foolishness young Celylith had most of the joints in his right arm dislocated! And that was not all of it!"  
  
"It was not your fault, my lord," Legolas shook his head. "He does not blame you for anything; he has told you so more than once. You could not have known that the person you hoped could provide you with some information about our captors was the one who was responsible for our capture in the first place!"  
  
"Couldn't I?" the golden haired elf lord frowned heavily. "I don't know about that, young one. I definitely should have."  
  
"Stop this! Now!" Elrond's sharp voice cut through the air. "I don't want to hear another word about this! If one of you had actually listened to me, you would have heard that I said that I did _not _ blame one of you!"  
  
The three elves and the ranger frowned, Elrond's words finally registering in their brains.  
"You are not blaming us?" Aragorn finally asked cautiously, as if he was afraid that he has misunderstood the dark haired elf.  
  
"No, of course not!" his father shook his head. "I may not agree with your methods, and I may not agree with some of your decisions, but I know that you had good reasons for everything you have done."  
  
The five beings in front of him were silent, appearing totally stunned. Elrohir blinked, still not able to believe what he had heard.   
"But, we … _Yestarë _…" the younger twin stammered. "Lord Thranduil was very angry … Estel nearly died, and so did Legolas, and…"  
  
Elrond shook his head and smiled, a bright smile that seemed to light up the entire room. He took a step forward and reached out to cup his son's face with one of his hands, the smile on his face even growing.  
"Do you really believe that I would value courtesy and good manners over your lives, Elrohir? Do you really believe that I would blame you for wishing to save your friend's life and that of your brother?"  
  
Elrohir merely stared at his father with large eyes, and so Elladan finally asked the question that was on all their minds.  
"So you are not angry with us, _ada_?"  
  
"Oh, I am angry, _ion nín_," Elrond shook his head amusedly. "I was so worried that I very nearly drove poor Erestor insane! Of course I am angry! I am so angry that I can hardly pronounce the word 'angry'!"   
  
Glorfindel smiled slightly at Elrond's words, something which the half-elven lord ignored completely. He looked from his hesitant-looking sons to the equally hesitant-looking wood-elf next to them before he looked at his longtime friend.  
"Just answer me one question," he added calmly.  
  
"Anything you wish to know, my lord," the golden haired elf answered for all of them and bowed his head slightly.  
  
"How do you feel, Legolas?"  
  
The younger elf blinked, clearly caught off guard. He exchanged a quick look with Aragorn and the twins, who all looked about as confused as he felt, before sudden understanding began to spread over his face.   
"Alive, my lord," the elven prince answered with a small smile. "Very much so."  
  
"Then you did the right thing," the Lord of Rivendell said simply. He smiled at the relieved faces of the elves and the man standing in front of him. "Why don't we try all this again?" he asked, the smile on his face even widening. "Welcome home, my sons. I am very glad to see you all in one piece."  
  
"Thank you, _ada_," Elladan answered with a large, very relieved smile. "We are very glad to be back. Forgive us for worrying you like this."  
  
"All is forgiven, my sons," Elrond smiled softly. "You are alive, and that is all that matters." He raised an eyebrow amusedly. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"  
  
"Yes, _ada_," Aragorn replied with a smile that threatened to split his face in two. "We would love to."  
  
For a few moments, they all remained where they were, staring at each other without saying another word. Then, as if on an unheard signal, the twins and Aragorn rushed forward, and half a second later the three younger beings had nearly swept their father off his feet. Only a quick step backward saved Elrond from toppling over, and even that might not have been enough if he hadn't been standing in front of the railing to the left of the stairs.   
  
Legolas didn't even bother to try and hide his smile as he watched his friends rush forward to embrace their father. From where he was standing it was almost impossible to distinguish between the four dark haired beings, and even Aragorn's shorter and slightly wavy hair seemed to blend with that of his father and brothers. The three elves and the man were right now forming a tight knot, and even Legolas' sharp eyes couldn't discern who was who with complete certainty.  
  
"Don't you ever do something like this again!" Elrond's soft voice cut through Legolas' thoughts. "Rhûn! Honestly!"  
  
"It wasn't our decision," Elrohir's voice protested, sounding slightly muffled by his father's heavy robes. "We just followed the humans."   
  
"I know that," Elrond nodded, one of his arms wrapped around Elladan and one around Aragorn. Elrohir had somehow managed to squeeze between his two brothers. "I know that! Still, I don't want any of you to set foot there ever again! Promise me!"  
  
"Of course, _ada_," the young ranger nodded and looked up at his father. "You could promise me whatever you wanted and I still wouldn't go there!"  
  
The twins nodded as well.  
"The humans there are all insane," Elladan told his father seriously. "I mean it, _ada_. Insane!"  
  
Elrond laughed softly and said something, but Legolas wasn't listening for he was slowly moving backwards, into the direction of the main door. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to intrude on his friends' and their father's reunion. After taking a few dozen steps Legolas reached the door, turned around and all but tiptoed out of the entrance hall.  
  
Half a second later soft footsteps heralded the arrival of Glorfindel who now appeared in the door, looking – for someone of over 6500 years of age rather remarkably so – like an elfling who was just escaping an inattentive teacher. Without really thinking about it Legolas gently closed the right side of door while Glorfindel closed the left, and instantly the soft voices of the elves and the young man inside the entrance hall were further muted so that not even elven ears could make out what they were saying.   
  
Legolas took a few more steps forward until he reached the railing that encircled the space around the front door, noticing with amusement that Glorfindel remained right where he was, namely in front of the closed doors. It was clear that the golden haired elf did not intend to let anyone disturb his lords, which was just fine with him, of course.  
  
"So," the elven prince finally said, leaning back against the railing, "He didn't kill you after all, did he?"  
  
"No, he didn't," Glorfindel admitted as he leaned back as well, against one of the doorposts. "Yet."  
  
"I am beginning to agree with Elrohir," Legolas frowned. "You really _are _exceedingly negative."  
  
"Realistic," Glorfindel reminded the younger elf. "I am realistic. Let me give you a piece of advice, young one: Don't eat or drink anything Lord Elrond or a healer gives you unless you want to spend the rest of your stay in a drugged stupor."  
  
Legolas gave Glorfindel an almost pitying look.  
"I wouldn't dream about doing such a thing, my lord. This is not my first visit, after all."  
  
"Good," Glorfindel nodded grimly. "These _peredhil_ are devious."  
  
"I had noticed, my lord."  
  
"So I had thought, young one. So I had thought."

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...  
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_mallorn (pl.: mellyrn) (S.) - one of the large golden-leaved trees of Lothlórien_  
_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
talan (S.) - flet, wooden platform in the trees  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
yén (pl. of yéni) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
hîr nín (S.) - my lord  
Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
ion nín (S.) - my son  
peredhil (pl. of peredhel) (S.) - half-elves  
  
  
  
  
_**•sighs contentedly• They're all back home, isn't that nice? Elrond didn't kill them after all, something that is highly commendable if you ask me. •g• And they're even in more or less one piece. "More or less" being the main words here, since we'll be having a nice, long conversation between Elrond and Aragorn next chapter. I haven't had one of those since THOM. •shakes head• That's far too long. Anyway, said chapter should be here in six or seven days. Sorry again for not posting sooner. •sheepish smile• Reviews, however, are as always greatly appreciated, loved and cherished!  
  
  
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**Additional A/N:  
  
Isadora2 - **•grummelgrummel• Ja ja ja, ich poste ja schon. Menschenskinder, wer haette denn geglaubt, dass eine einzelne kleine Person so hartnaeckig sein kann? Ich hatte schon fast Angst, meine Emails zu checken... •g• Trotzdem muss ich mich dafuer bedanken. Nichts geht ueber ein wenig Panik, um die Gedanken zu befluegeln... •g• Den Rest vom TWIN zu reviewen ist allerdings nicht notwendig. Wenn du allerdings darauf bestehst, werde ich dich garantiert nicht davon abhalten! •g• Es ist auch schoen zu hoeren, dass dir den Anfang bis jetzt gefallen hat, auch wenn ich zugeben muss, dass ich noch nie zuvor mit einer Fussballmannschaft verglichen worden bin! Eine ... dubiose Ehre! •g• Vielen, vielen Dank fuer alle deine Emails und deine ewiglange Review, und gibt dem grossen, dunkel-mysterioesen Schotten einen Kuss von mir! Vielleicht bin ich ja zu Ostern wieder da! •g• Danke noch mal! •knuddelt•  
**Ellyrianna** - •huggles back• Thanks! I'm glad to be back, too, and I'm sorry I didn't post on Sunday. I really wanted to, but FF-net hates me. I know: What else is new? •g• LOL, it's good that the villains look villainous! That's the whole point after all, isn't it? •g• There won't be any real torture for a few chapters though, sorry. But there will be some angst. Angst is also good, isn't it? I know, not as good as torture, but still... •g• Yeah, well, nothing I can do. My alter ego's on vacation right now. I need to wait till she gets back. •g•  
**CSI3** - 22nd of September, huh? Well, we can do that! No problem whatsoever! Happy Birthday to you! I hope you'll have lots of fun - I'm sure you will - and will get lots of presents. That's VERY important, after all! •g•  
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - •wide-eyed• You're very welcome. Really. It's great to be back! You can let go of me now. Really. •forced smile• So you're already addicted, huh? Well, that was quick! Yay me! •g• You are right of course, humans heal much more slowly than elves, and Estel is, after all, a man. So don't worry, Elrond will definitely notice. He's a father AND a healer, after all - now that I think about it, it's quite a scary combination! •g• And our nice, evil, mysterious woman is not Girion's wife, of course. I don't think we've met her before. •thinks• No, I think we haven't. It's nice seeing you again, btw! •huggles•  
**HarryEstel** - LOL, yes, they would have been a great deal safer and happier if they'd just stayed in Mirkwood. Then again, they'd probably been eaten by a spider or something like that... •g• An update a week isn't really "soon", but I hope it's not too long. Thanks a lot for the review!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - •extricates herself from fierce hug• Thanks ... •cough• ... nice seeing you too ... •cough• really... •g• J/k, it's really great to 'see' you again! •g• So you 'adore' Isál and Elvynd, hm? That's nice, really. I'll tell them; they'll need some cheering up, I think. They've been rather depressed lately... •evil grin• I wonder why. Well, and let's just say that the object of Isál's affection is indeed one of the two elf maidens you brought up. It shouldn't be too hard to guess which one, should it? Great you like the female villain, btw. I modelled her after my sister. •g• Yes, I AM evil.  
**AM** - Thank you very much for all your corrections. There are things I will never be able to learn, I fear, and one of them is when to use "that" and when to use "which". Our English teacher wasn't all that specific when he explained that aspect of English grammar. Then again, I never really listened. •g• I'll try to remember them, but there are times when I know something sounds awkward but just don't know what to change. •shrugs• I always liked Latin better anyway. •g• J/K. Thanks a lot for your corrections, they are really appreciated!   
**LOTRFaith** - •hugs back• Yes, I'm back. Late, as always. •g• And you're not the only one who is sad that Galalith died and all that. It wasn't that I WANTED to kill him, mind you ... you know, my alter ego and all that... •trails off• Ah well, I am evil. I admit it. •g• So you already hate my villain, huh? That's good! That's her job, after all, to be hated and despised! •g• And I could kill her now, but that would be boring. And far, far too easy. •evil grin•  
**TrinityTheSheDevil** - Yeah, I, too, noticed that there weren't too many female villains out there. So I decided to do something about it - all in the name of emancipation and sexual equality and all that... •g• I really hope that you're alright; I saw some pictures on TV, and being anywhere near the Gulf of Mexiko looks like a very, very bad idead at the moment. Poor you. •huggles•  
**Aratfeniel** - LOL, glad to see that you're enjoying this new story already. And you already know where this story is going to go and how it's going to end: In blood, doom, destruction and all that. •g• Nothing new, I know. •evil grin•  
**Nikara** - •sheepishly• Yes, I know, I have been neglecting poor Elrond for some time now. That's why I put an Aragorn-Elrond scene into the next chapter, to appease him - and you guys. More you than him, though. •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - •blushes slightly• Thank you! It's great that you're enjoying my stories, and even greater that my stories don't begin to bore you. It happens to me quite often while reading a book (or a story): I just stop caring. I've just reached the middle of the book and realise that I don't care anymore what happens to the heroes. •sighs• It's sad, really. Thanks a lot for all your kind words, and I really hope you'll be enjoying this story as well!  
**Silvertoekee** - LOL, that's what foreshadowing is supposed to do, you know. Scare people. And characters, of course. •evil grin• And you're right, I wouldn't want to be in Isál's or Elvynd's shoes either. They're NOT very happy at the moment, no. •g• Then again, who can blame them? Not me, certainly. •g•  
**SadieSil** - •g• Thanks! It's nice to hear that you enjoyed the last chapter; I hope you'll enjoy this one (and the rest of the story, of course •g•) as well! Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Galadhriel Vornionien** - I'm sorry this story is addictive. Hm, no, I'm not sorry, but I'm evil. That explains it, I guess. •g• Don't worry though, I WILL post a chapter a week. Not much more I'm afraid, but definitely not less either. Scout's honour. •g• No need to get out the fire arrows. LOL, you want to start EAILF? Please, I beg you, don't let Firnsarnien hear that. She and the CLF are bad enough! It's unfortunate that you're already attached to Isál, because I have to admit that I have been thinking about ... killing him. Now I might have to reconsider... Might being the main word here. •evil grin• Ah well, we'll see. Thanks for reviewing!  
**Deana** - Yay indeed! I missed all of you, I really did! Great to hear that you liked the first chapter, and thank you very much for all your reviews! •huggles•  
**Jera** - Jera! So you found an Internet Café, I take it? Well done! •huggles• It's great to see you again, I really missed you - yes, and your reviews, I admit it. •g• But I know what you mean: Reading stories in an Internet Café is generally not a good idea. I had to do it for some time myself, and most of the time I received VERY odd looks indeed. •g• Hmm, you want to see more of Isál and Elvynd? That's not a problem, they're in this chapter, after all. There is a scene with Elvynd in Ch. 3, and another with Isál AND Elvynd in Ch. 4. So there are quite a few in the near future, and I can even tell you that they'll play quite a big role in this story. So there'll be quite a lot of scenes with one or both of them. Oh, and you're not the only one who can't keep up to date with our calendar. It hates me, I swear it does! I miss every single deadline or term there is, I really do! It's rather frustrating... •g• Your next words really made me blush, btw. I love Thundera Tiger, and I really can't think of a better compliment. Thanks! I am honoured, I really am. It's great 'seeing' you again, and thanks a lot for your reviews! •huggles•  
**Templa Otmena** - •blushes• Thanks a lot! If you people are not careful, I will get delusions of grandeur, I really will! My brain will swell and my head will explode. •nods seriously• I can picture it. But then again, I AM morbid. •g• And I am not a very clever person, I am just more a language-person than a science-person. I hates Maths and Physics and Chemistry; the only thing I could stand was Biology, and even that I didn't really like. •shrugs• There are few people who can do both, at least few people that I know. And I don't think that is the reason for ff-net's strange behaviour. It's evil, it's as simple as that. Evil. It hates us. It wants us dead, or at least insane. Honestly! I'm not joking! •give ff-net suspicious look• It's evil, I tell you! EVIL!!! •g•  
**Grumpy** - LOL, yes, to say that they'll get into trouble is a rather fair guess, I think. The title might be something of a giveaway, I think. •g• And if Elrond REALLY is clever, he would lock them up in their rooms. Unfortunately, he's far too soft-hearted. •shakes head• So it's all his fault. •g•  
**Noldo** - Oh, don't worry, the disaster is already waiting. It's right now waiting in line, behind the catastrophe and the calamity. •g• And you're right, they're not really in one piece. Three pieces each sounds about right, I think. •evil grin• Great you approve of the female villain. Why should only males have all the fun, eh? We can be just as mean and insane as they! •g•  
**Tychen** - Hmm, let me see. Friendship? Check. Loyalty? Check. Self-sacrifice? Check. Bravery (read: Stupidity)? Check. Angst? Definitely. Pain? Yes. Dark evil bad folks with twisted but clever plans? I guess you could say so. The greatest terror of all, 'The Cliffy': Check! So, yeah, you're right. There will be some of all that in here, don't worry. •g• And if Elvynd had any sense at all, he would leave for the Grey Havens immediately. •sighs• He's a little stupid, that one, isn't he? •g•  
**Radbooks** - 'Your' Glorfindel, eh? And I think you're right, Glorfindel most probably isn't all that nervous. He knows that Elrond won't be really angry or anything, but I think he would feel guilty for having 'failed' to protect Elrond's sons and the others. •evil grin• There's nothing like a bit of irrational guilt to make things interesting, wouldn't you agree? It's nice to hear that you're enjoying this first chapter, thanks a lot for the review!  
**Elvingirl3737** - LOL, yes, you're right. I should have called it "An Ominous Beginning", not "A Small Beginning". Would have been much more appropriate. •g• Thanks a lot for your kind words, and I really hope you'll enjoy the rest of the story as well! Thank you for taking the time to review!  
**Alison H** - Thank you, thank you! It's great to be back, I had almost forgotten how much I enjoy posting a story. •g• Almost. And you missed my sarcasm? Really? That's such a nice thing to say! My family and friend seem to be quite annoyed by it sometimes - I don't know why either. Sometimes I think they have no sense of humour. •g• You're actually printing all this? Then I really think you should pamper your printer. I have no idea how long this will be, but I have the sneaking suspicion that it will be longer than 400 pages, which is, in comparison to TWIN, not too long. Your poor, poor printer. •g• Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Katie** - LOL, I like 'our hapless heroes'. It fits very well. •g• Thank you very much for your compliments; it's wonderful to hear that you like the way I write the characters - and Aragorn, of course. It's not him I struggle with anyway, he's always quite good. At the moment the the evil lady's seneschal is proving difficult. •glares at Salir• Just you wait, my dear. I'll figure you out sooner or later... •grimaces• I'm pathetic. I'm threatening my own characters. Hmm, let me see, more "Aragorn considers the universe"? Dear God, I write things like that? I must have missed that... •g• But I think there'll be a few contemplative scenes, if that is what you mean. •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - I was only a few days late! Well, or a few weeks, it depends on how you see it... •sheepishly• So I guess you're right. I am a bit late. •g• And your celebration was scary. I mean it. Scary. •g• Hmm, I don't think there'll be a dragon in this one, BUT I am planning to include a smaller animal. It's usually black and can fly, too, but it usually ... flaps. Kind of. Ah, no, you didn't spell Celylith correctly, but don't worry about that. Lots of people spell him Celilyth, so I am beginning to get used to it. •g• You're right, btw, I haven't done much with orcs, which is why I am planning to include them in the next story. The thing about orcs is that they are generally stupid, and therefore don't make elaborate, evil plans. I love elaborate, evil plans. •g• And you'll find out the lady's name in Ch. 5. That's rather soon, isn't it? •innocent smile• Soon enough. •g• •DOESN'T huggle• Thanks a lot for your review, it's great to 'see' you again!  
**Red Tigress** - •g• Great you liked the brooding. I wasn't really planning to write it, but they were all in such a foul mood that I really didn't have a choice. •shakes head• Really, I don't understand what their problem is.... •evil grin• Don't worry about the angst, btw. The next bit will be in Ch. 3, I think, and plenty more after that, so don't worry about that. I love angst. Who doesn't? •g•  
**Erana** - Ah, yes, THAT problem. A lot of people told me about that, and I have written ff-net an email complaining about it. It's all their fault, I'm sure... •g• Then again, maybe not, but that's not something I am willing to admit. •g• I wanted to thank you again for your very nice and long emails. I wouldn't think you're a stalker, btw. I'd think you're just another really obssessed person. There are a lot of them, most of them on ff-net. •g• I hope your printer will survive this story without finally going on strike, and thanks a lot for all your wonderful feedback! •huggles•  
**Emiri-chan** - LOL, yes, "quite cross" is as good a term as any, isn't it? Well, English really isn't my first language. That would be German, you're right, and my 'second' language would be Latin. We started with Latin at school, something I never regretted. It makes learning other languages much easier, and besides, it's easy. And quite beautiful, even though I like Ancient Greek even better. That is a seriously beautiful language. •dreamy expression• Be that as it may. I remember your story, btw, I think I've taken a look at it a few months ago while I was sitting in a horribly boring computer sciences class. It was the one about the twins being at Helm's Deep, wasn' it? Well, you know me and canon. I hated PJ for bringing the Galadhrim to the Battle of the Hornburg (especially with Haldir as their captain! Hello? That's just so wrong on so many levels! •shakes head•), and I have to admit that I don't really read AU stories. Well, mine is AU as well, at least in a way, but you know what I mean. The thing is that I have this horrible exam looming, and therefore really don't have the time to read anything. I haven't even read the last four C&S stories! It's really horrible! Anyway, I promise I'll take another look at it as soon as the exam is over. I really don't have the time now, sorry. Okay?  
**Crippled Raven** - Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. I remember such things at the most inopportune moments... Then again, most of the time I remember things like papers that were due yesterday. •shudders• Really, my memory for such things is abysmal. I hope you didn't spend too much time reading this, but it's great to hear that you're enjoying it so far. And these - • - are the substitutes for my stars. The things I was using earlier are deleted now as well. FF-net really, really hates me. No, it doesn't surprise me, but it's slightly inconvenient. •g•  
**Elvendancer** - •g• You're right, that might be quite hard. At the moment they'd be happier if they'd be journeying to Mordor or Harad or something like that... •g• They ARE weird sometimes, aren't they? Anyway, thanks a lot for all your reviews, and I'm glad that you liked this chapter!  
**Snow-Glory** - Hmm, yes. I think you're quite right. Elrond really IS going to kill them. At least he'll try. •g• No, j/k. You know our favourite half-elf. He's too soft-hearted for his own good. •g• Sorry about that Lothlórien thing, but I'm a little weird when it comes to canon. I'm not a big fan of the Galadhrim anyway, so it's not too hard for me not to write a story about them. What I might do, however, is having someone from Lórien visit Rivendell. But no, not Haldir. I don't like him overly much. •g• Lucky him, I guess.  
**Mornflower** - Well, thank you! It's nice to hear that you liked this chapter, and I really hope you'll enjoy the rest of them as well! Thanks a lot for reviewing, especially if you didn't really have the time!  
**Amelie** - Of course I remember you! You were that insane ... uhm, I mean, special girl. •innocent smile• How could I ever forget you? Besides, I love that French movie, Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Pulain, I don't know if you know it. It's wonderful. Anyway, every time I read your name, I am reminded of the movie, so how could I forget you? •g• But I totally understand, RL has priority, after all, or it should have. So don't worry about reviewing or anything like that. LOL, I could post the story in one go, of course, but you'd have to wait for .... hmmm, at least three months to read it then. I think it's better this way, huh? •g• And it's NOT my third or fourth year of posting! I posted AEFAE in January 2003, so it's been only 1 ½ years. Four years would be scary, somehow. •g•  
**AngelMouse5** - You're right, it's really a miracle that they didn't get injured during this journey. Miracles DO happen. Besides, I think they'd get really depressed if they were unable to go somewhere without getting into some kind of trouble. We can't have that, can we? •g• It's great that you like the beginning so far. Thank you very much for all your reviews! •huggles•  
**Arrina** - LOL, yes, the lady is indeed evil. She's the villain, so she should be evil. It would be no fun otherwise, would it? •g• I can't allow you to kill her though, that would kind of ruin the story. Besides, it would be far too easy. •evil grin• Thanks for threatening me with death, doom and destruction. I love death threats! •g•  
**SeventhSpanishAngel12** - Yeah, you're right. We DO have a strong sense of doom floating around here. •sighs• I love doom. It's Elrond's favourite word, too, at least that's what my sister and I think. •g• Galadriel's is grief, though. •grimaces• Don't ask. Thanks a lot for your compliment, btw. It's nice to hear that you consider my insane little stories nice enough to review. I think I understand what you mean, though. I don't review other people's stories just to tell them how horrible they are, either. So, thanks for the review! •g•  
**Bailey** - Glad to hear that you liked the bantering. It's supposed to be lighthearted and funny, so it's good that you laughed the whole time. •g• Don't worry about reviewing, RL DOES have priority. It's nice to know that you're enjoying it, though. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - There are viruses lurking somewhere on ff-net? I never had any problems like that with the site, and that means something since it has given me about every problem there is. •g• I haven't read the preview for C&S' story, but I know how annoying it can be when someone posts a story with a plot similar to yours. I don't think you have to worry though. You can give two people exactly the same facts, for example "Aragorn and Legolas go to Disneyland, get kidnapped by the Pirates of the Carribean and get nearly eaten by a purple octopus" (Hmm, that DOES sound interesting! •g•), and they'd come up with two totally different stories. And there ARE stories with female villains, didn't Siri write one like that? With the wife of a general from Harad as the villain? I think I remember something like that... So it doesn't matter. Just because you have the same elements as other people doesn't mean that it's boring or anything. •g•  
**Marbienl** - I'm sorry to hear that ff-net is giving you trouble again. I really think it hates us, even though I really can't see why. We haven't done anything but insult it, have we? •g• As I said before, I didn't get the ecard, sorry. Must have been eaten by GMX, which doesn't really surprise me. They can be quite weird sometimes. •g• And you're right, of course. I never describe Legolas as golden haired. He isn't, poor him, that's Glorfindel. LOL, and I knew you'd notice that little sentence. Don't worry, Elrond will have a look at his reckless son, and let me tell you one thing: He isn't going to be happy. It's a good thing Teonvan is dead. •g• Estel still has Ráca, lucky him. I think Erelas was quite happy to get rid of it... •g• I think Legolas really plans to stay for a while. I think a summer or something like that isn't really long for an elf. •gives Marbienl careful look• Estel seeing ghosts, huh? I don't believe in ghosts. Do you? I mean, come on, that's ... well, HIGHLY unlikely. I mean, there is no reason not to write a story like that, just take the Army of the DeadI hated them in the movie, btw, but that's another story. So, why not? •g• Be that as it may, thanks once again for your long review! •huggles•  
**Claudette** - •blushes• Thanks! That most certainly is a very nice compliment! •g• And you're right of course, our intrepid heroes won't be able to keep their noses out of trouble. It's their destiny or something like that. It might also be connected to the fact that my alter ego is evil. •shrugs• Anyway, thanks a lot for reviewing!  
**Just Jordy** - Hmm, yes, I guess you could say that. The title IS a bit of a giveaway, isn't it? •g• Glorfindel will be in this story, too, even though I don't know yet how much, if you understand what I mean. I think there will be a bit more of Erestor this time. •Erestor runs off screaming• Too late, my dear, too late. •evil grin• And you know Elrond: He's really soft-hearted. He won't kill them, even though it just might be easiest for everyone involved if he did. •g•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - Well, yes, there is. How did you know? I am indeed planning to put some Erestor angst in here, something that surprises even me now that I think about it... The elf lord in question isn't very happy about it, mind you... •evil grin• And Glorfindel doesn't hate him, of course not. How could you hate Erestor? •pats his head• And I know it's Tuesday, but I always post in the evening. So I still have ... let me see ... about two or three hours till it will be 10 pm. Yay me! •g• Anyway, thanks a lot for the review! •huggles•  
  
**So, that should be everyone. Thanks so much for all your reviews, they really make my day! •g•**


	3. Chains of the Past

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:**  
  
**First things first: I have decided to try and keep the A/N as well as the reviewer responses a little bit shorter. •ducks a hail of arrows• No, wait a second, I actually have a reason. A few days ago Isadora was so kind to inform me about what has happened to Cassia & Sio - something that almost sent me into a mindless panic. FF-net apparently saw it fit to remove one of their stories because they had allegedly violated FF-net guidelines by posting too many A/N and things like that - my sincerest condolences, btw. The first thing I thought was more or less "If that can happen to C&S, it can happen to everyone", and so I'll try not to ramble quite as much in the future. Stop cheering, you! •g•  
  
Some of you have asked whether or not Celylith would be in this story, and I think I have to say that ... I don't really know. I was originally planning to invite him to this newest disaster-in-the-making, but right now I'm not completely sure about it. So I'd say there is a fair chance that he'll get involved in whatever mad scheme our intrepid heroes are planning next, even though I can't say with absolute certainty. If you really want him to make an appearance, however, I'll see what I can do. (Celylith: •glaring at readers• Don't you dare say Yes!)  
  
  
Okay, so that is it for now. I can't think of anything I'd have to announce now, anyway. •defiant look at ff-net• So, yes, we'll have that talk between Elrond and Aragorn I promised you, but first we see more of ... well, you could call them the baddies, I guess. Oh, and the twins and Legolas thoroughly and completely ruin Elvynd's day. They are rather good at that, aren't they? •g•  
  
Have fun and review, please!  
  
  
**

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Chapter 3  
  
  
Early morning light filtered through the branches of the trees that were overlooking the river, shedding a somehow rather sickly light onto the lands. Not that it would have mattered if the light shed on this scene was sickly or as bright as that of the two trees themselves, of course. Destruction always looked the same, no matter in what light you viewed it.   
  
Torel stared at the remnants of the house in front of him, his eyes wandering blindly over the skeletal wooden beams that had once formed the roof of the building. He had never thought it possible for the charred remains of a building to look so much like a corpse, but the thought had immediately risen inside of him as soon as he had arrived here. It wasn't that farfetched an idea either now that he thought about it; the blackened beams _did _look like the exposed bones of a dead creature – if one's imagination was morbid enough, that was.  
  
That thought brought a small smile to his lips even despite the grimness of the situation. He probably was a tiny bit morbid, something that was only too understandable if one considered what had happened. Right now, however, he was also something else: Angry. If he was perfectly serious, he wasn't merely angry. He was furious, so furious that he found it hard not to tremble with the raw intensity of that emotion.   
  
The young man turned around with a jerky, angry movement and began to walk over to the small group of people that was crowding around what was left of the other two buildings that had once stood here in the small clearing. There was nothing left of them now, only scorched wood, ash and heaps of stone that looked so desolate that the fury in Torel's heart even increased. One of the two houses was in an even worse condition than the one he had been looking at a moment ago, truly little more than a heap of stones and ash with smoke hanging thickly in the air about it.  
  
After a few moments he reached the site and stopped next to the group of townspeople, looking for his father's tall figure and finding him only mere moments later. It was truly fortuitous that the older man was so tall – you could spot him effortlessly in almost every crowd, no matter how large it might be. He had taken after his mother, however, and was of more average height, even though he was by no means small.  
  
Torel's father looked up when his son stepped next to him, the same fury in his eyes that was visible on the younger man's face.  
"Anything left?" he asked in a gruff voice that was made even gruffer by suppressed ire.  
  
"Nothing," Torel shook his head, causing some of his longer brown curls to fly around his head. "Nothing at all."  
  
"No survivors?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Damn them," another member of the group growled, sounding remarkably like an angry dog. He was short, compact and had stringy grey hair and a tanned, wrinkled face. "Damn them all into the deepest depths there are! If it is a fight they want, a fight they can have!"   
  
"Not so fast," Torel's father cautioned the other man. "We don't know who did this, not yet."  
  
"'Course we know who did this!" one of the younger men exclaimed disbelievingly. "It wasn't orcs or other things like them, and if they were raiders or thieves of some kind, they were worst I have ever seen! Who burns warehouses and does not take the wares?"  
  
"Damil's right," the grey haired man nodded. "We all know who did this! Who else but _them _would have known that there were only two men here yesterday evening? Two men who are dead now! Come now, Toran, closing your eyes to this won't change the facts!"  
  
"Alright," the tall man nodded. "They would have known."   
  
"Damn right they would have!" Damil nodded emphatically. "They're demons, all of them, and the worst one is that wench they call Lady!"  
  
Nobody opposed these words, for it was one of the things all of the men agreed on without reservation. People from their neighbouring town weren't popular at all here, and the woman who ruled said town was said to be as ruthless and uncaring as they came. Far more ruthless and uncaring than her late husband, and that meant quite a lot in the opinion of most.  
  
"So what do we do now?" Torel asked after a few moments, voicing what everyone else was thinking right now. "If it really was them, they're long gone now and following them won't help us at all. They'll be back in their town by now, and going after them would be suicide."  
  
"Oh no, we won't be going after them now," the elderly, squat man shook his head grimly. "Not now. We have to take the lads back home so we can give them a proper burial."  
  
All of them looked over at the two corpses which other townspeople had pulled out of the still warm rubble of the three houses. Their eyes strayed back to their companions almost as soon as they had fastened on the bodies someone had mercifully covered with blankets. Not all of them had actually seen the two dead men, but all of them knew that people who had been caught in a fire were anything but a pretty sight.   
  
"Yes," Toran nodded seriously. "That's what we will do. And after that we will hold a council. This cannot go on."  
  
"No, it cannot," the older man agreed. "And it will not. Until now it was a nuisance, but this is too much." He looked from one man to the next, looking ridiculously like a small, elderly general inspecting his troops. "As I said, if it's a fight they want, a fight they can have."   
  
An approving murmur ran through the small crowd as people looked at each other with grim determination. A moment later the men began to disperse, most of them walking off to build two stretchers on which they could transport the two dead men's bodies. Some, however, positioned themselves at the edges of the small clearing, their eyes sweeping over their surroundings alertly and their hands gripping whatever weapons they had been able to find when they had been woken by a shocked shepherd's boy very early this morning.  
  
Torel helped construct one of the stretchers, and while he lashed together two of the main wooden beams that would form the frame, he furtively looked at his companions, not really knowing whether he should be mildly frightened, worried or amused. No, he decided a moment later. He didn't really know what he felt, but it most certainly wasn't amusement.  
  
None of the men whom he had known for most of his life looked like they had before all this had started – at least not in his opinion. Even though few of them were soldiers or had ever trained as such and despite the fact that some of them didn't even hold real weapons but rather scythes, pitchforks and the like, he couldn't find it in him to find their sight amusing or comical in any way. Each and every one of them looked grim and determined, and one could even have applied the terms "ready to kill" or "blood-thirsty".  
  
His neighbours and friends hadn't taken old Hurag's words figuratively or metaphorically, he realised with a small pang of dread. They were ready to fight and to kill – ready for what would be a war, no matter how carefully everyone had been avoiding that word. The young man closed his eyes for a moment before he returned to his work, trying to ignore the worry and fear that was beginning to spread inside of him. It wasn't the possibility of death or killing that worried him, not by a long shot. There were parts of Middle-earth that were dangerous, especially for humans, and his home just happened to be one of them. He had always reckoned to get involved in hostilities or even open war one day, ever since he had been old enough to comprehend the dangers that surrounded him and his town.  
  
No, it wasn't that at all, Torel thought grimly to himself. But he _was _worried, for this was most certainly not the kind of war he had ever imagined, not even in one of his more morbid fantasies, which meant quite a lot in his opinion.  
  
The past, it appeared, was something nobody could outrun, no matter how far or fast you ran. Sooner or later it caught up with you, and when it did, it was as a rule best not to be around, only that none of them had a choice. And they'd never had one, either.

  
  
Consciousness was only slowly returning, and for several long moments he truly had no idea where he was. Waking up not knowing where you were was never a good or comforting thing, and so he forced himself to leave the inviting darkness of sleep behind and struggle towards awareness. Ignorance of one's whereabouts was generally a good way to get oneself killed, that was something he had learned a long time ago.  
  
The man lying in the large bed slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, confusion written on his face. This was not the room he had occupied the past few months when he had been staying with Legolas in … what was the name?  
  
He frowned and squinted, staring at the white ceiling as if the answer was visible there. Legolas was his friend, that was something he knew very well. Legolas lived in a forest, that was another thing he knew, but what was its name? Mirkwood, he finally decided, or at least something similar. It sounded far better than Darkforest, which was the only other name that had somehow come to his mind.  
  
Very well, he concluded inwardly, amazed at how slowly his mind was working. So he was not in Mirkwood, and he was also reasonably sure that he was not in a forest or anywhere outside. So where was he?  
  
Aragorn regained enough control over his body to slowly and carefully lean onto his elbows and manoeuvre himself into an upright position. Before he had even got close to something that could have been called sitting, sharp pain shot through his head, and faster than he had ever thought possible his hands flew up to cradle his skull. After several minutes, when he had made sure that his head would in fact not explode, he carefully pried open his eyelids and shot his surroundings a dark glare.  
  
It took him a few moments to adjust his eyes to the dim light that filled the room, and even longer to find anything he actually recognised. The young ranger's eyes wandered from the dark blue curtains that hid the windows and the balcony door over to the desk on the other side of the room. He squinted as he tried to make out the titles of the books and scrolls that were piled rather haphazardly on the desktop, but finally gave up with an inward groan. The letters were dancing over the parchment and leather in a manner that reminded him of crazed ants and therefore did little to alleviate the pain in his head.  
  
Yet there could be little doubt about one thing now: He was in his own room, back in Rivendell. His addled brain had needed some time to realise that simple fact, but he was now reasonably certain about it since he recognised the very battered copy of the Lay of Leithian which Elrohir had given him for his sixth birthday. It was lying on one of the small tables to his left, just where he had put it the last time he had read it. He had always loved the story of Beren and Lúthien, ever since he had first heard it when he had been a very young child.  
  
Slowly memories of last night came back to him, and with a rather loud groan Aragorn buried his head in his hands. Why oh why had he tried to keep up with the twins and Legolas? He really should have learnt by now that humans did not possess the same tolerance for strong alcoholic beverages as elves – a realisation for which he had paid with several skull-splitting hangovers. But yesterday evening he had had other things on his mind than counting how many glasses of wine he had drunk; besides, after half a dozen it had become a rather insignificant question anyway.  
  
It was all Lindir's fault, the young ranger finally decided fuzzily while he slowly and carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed, an action that served to increase the pounding inside his skull even more. If Lindir hadn't handed them all these glasses of wine in a rather sneaky and obvious attempt to encourage them to tell him what had happened in Rhûn, none of this would have happened.  
  
Then again, it was also Legolas' fault. It had been Dorwinion wine after all; one of two dozen barrels King Thranduil had sent his father as an uncharacteristically generous gift some years ago. So, Aragorn concluded darkly while he grabbed one of the bedposts and pulled himself into a standing position, it was Legolas' fault. He should have stopped his father from sending that accursed brew, which would have made everything a lot easier.  
  
This was typical, the young man thought while he made his way over to the nearest window. Legolas had probably planned all this for years. It was evil, it was devious, it required a lot of meticulous planning and was bound to make him suffer. Oh yes. It was _just _like Legolas.  
  
With an annoyed flick of his head Aragorn reached out and pulled back the curtains in front of the carved window. As soon as the first sunbeam found its way into the room his head exploded into so many tiny ragged pieces that even the most keen-eyed elf would have needed years to find all of them. It actually took the ranger some time to realise that his head hadn't really exploded and had only done quite a good imitation of it, and after a few more moments he finally opened his eyes again.   
  
"I will kill him," he half-swore and half-groaned while he moved over to the pitcher of water on his nightstand and pulled open the rest of the curtains. "I swear to the Valar that I will kill him. And his father. And everyone who cultivates or trades with Dorwinion wine. And everyone who lives near the vineyard. And everyone who has _heard _of that wine, and…"  
  
"And that is how my son turned into a mass murderer," an amused voice announced behind him. "And because of a keg of wine at that!"  
  
Aragorn grimaced and, instead of answering, stuck his head into the deep bowl with water on his nightstand. The cold water revived him instantly and so he remained underwater as long as he could, enjoying the feeling of cool water against his warm skin. When he was in serious danger of drowning he re-emerged, feeling blindly for a towel he knew should be somewhere to his left. A few seconds later a soft piece of cloth was placed in his hand, and when he had dried his hair and wiped the water out of his eyes, he saw Elrond smile down on him.  
  
"Good morning."  
  
"That is matter of interpretation," Aragorn grumbled and allowed himself to sink back onto his bed. "And would you please stop yelling?"   
  
"I am not," the elf replied with another smile.  
  
"Yes, you are," the man groaned and put his head in his hands. "Just listen to yourself!"  
  
"It is hardly something I can avoid," Elrond replied and took up a steaming mug that he had put down on one of the small tables standing in front of the windows. "Drink this. It will help with the headache from which you are undoubtedly suffering."  
  
Aragorn grimaced in disgust, but eventually took the mug from his father and began to sip the hot concoction.   
"Don't," he advised his elven father darkly between two swallows. "Don't say it."  
  
Elrond raised an eyebrow and shot the human a half-surprised and half-innocent look.  
"Say what, my son?"  
  
"That it is my own fault," Aragorn answered. "That I should have known better than to try and drink as much wine as Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas. That someone who has lived with elves for more than twenty years should know that the Second People do not possess the same tolerance for alcohol as the Firstborn."  
  
"It appears that I do not need to say anything," his father smiled. "You seem to have noticed all these things by yourself."  
  
"After the fiftieth time even I notice a few things," the man grumbled and swallowed some more of the mixture. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not completely unable to learn."  
  
"I never thought you were," Elrond assured his foster son. "And I have to say that your impersonation of Glorfindel lecturing you on your misconduct was rather … accurate."  
  
Aragorn would nearly have choked on his drink.  
"I did what?" Elrond merely raised an amused eyebrow, and so Aragorn repeated, staring at his father with appalled eyes, "I did _what_? Nobody stopped me? I – did – _what_?"  
  
"It was highly amusing," Elrond nodded solemnly. "Now that I think about it, however, Glorfindel himself didn't seem to be enjoying it quite as much." He shrugged, an almost evil glint in his eyes. "All those present in the Hall of Fire seemed to find it hilarious, though."  
  
"Eru Ilúvatar," the young man groaned in horror, allowed himself to flop down onto his bed and covered his eyes with his arm. "I am dead."  
  
"Not necessarily," the Lord of Rivendell shook his head. "He might only make you suffer horribly and humiliate you in public until you beg him to kill you."  
  
Aragorn uncovered an eye and glared at his father.  
"Thank you very much, _ada_. I feel a lot better now."  
  
"There is no need to thank me, Estel," Elrond shook his head again, a decidedly smug smile on his face. "It is a father's duty to put everything in perspective from time to time, isn't it?"  
  
The man grimaced once more and sat up, reached for the mug he had placed on the nightstand and downed the rest of its contents in one swallow, a disgusted grimace on his face.  
"This tastes just as bad as your tea," he complained sourly. "One of these days you will have to tell me which herb you use to give it such a disgusting taste."  
  
"One of these days maybe," Elrond smiled friendly. "Not anytime soon, however. If I actually told you or your brothers, you would just find something to counteract the herb's taste."  
  
"And we all know that 'it's not supposed to taste pleasant, it is medicine'," Aragorn quoted his father with a smile. He put the mug back onto the small table, noting with some relief that the pounding in his head was already lessening. The smile faded as he sat up a bit straighter and scrutinised the dark haired elf's face with quiet intensity. "But you have not only come to bring me that foul-tasting potion, _ada_."  
  
The elf's eyes widened in real surprise as he returned the young man's searching look.  
"What makes you say that, Estel?"  
  
"I know you," Aragorn simply retorted and looked at his father seriously. "There is something on your mind, something about which you wish to talk with me. You have that … look."  
  
"That 'look'," Elrond repeated and looked back at the young human sitting on the bed next to him, clad in sleeping pants and a light shirt. With his tousled, damp hair and the still sleepy expression in his eyes, Aragorn looked about twelve years old. "I was not aware that I have a certain … 'look'."   
  
"Oh, you have several," his human son confirmed readily. "Right now you have the 'I have to talk about something which I do not really wish to discuss'-look." He ignored the elf's raised eyebrows and leaned forward a little. "What is it, father? If it is that Glorfindel-impersonation – I can not even remember doing that, but I will gladly apologise, even in public, and…"   
  
"No," Elrond held up a hand and interrupted the man in mid-sentence. "No, it's not that, even though I think you should apologise to him. You know how Glorfindel can be."  
  
Aragorn gave a small nod, acknowledging his father's words, but his eyes didn't leave the other's face. Elrond gave a small inward sigh, once again asking himself how he had survived raising such a headstrong child.  
"I want to take a look at you," the half-elven lord finally said with deceiving calmness and rose to his feet. "Take off your shirt."   
  
The young ranger looked rather surprised for a few moments, but then he narrowed his eyes, understanding dawning on his face.  
"You have spoken with the twins," he said accusatorily, making absolutely no move to comply with his father's wishes.  
  
"No, I have not," Elrond shook his head, turning back from where he had gathered some healing supplies which he had brought with him when he had entered the room. "I talked with Legolas and Glorfindel."  
  
"Hmpf." Aragorn made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "I am hard-pressed to say which one is actually worse."  
  
"If you consider being concerned about you a bad thing, then you might be right," the elf replied, unmoved. He stopped in front of Aragorn and gave him a mildly threatening look. "I can do many things, but tending to injuries is hard even for me if the patient does not remove his shirt."   
  
"There _are _no injuries!" Aragorn glared at his elven father. "I have no idea what Legolas told you, but it is not true!"   
  
"Is that so?" Elrond asked softly, grey eyes fixed searchingly on his son's face. "Then why don't you take off that shirt and show me?"  
  
"Because I happen to like it right where it is, that's why!" the man snapped and crossed his arms over his chest, not at all caring how childish his words might sound.  
  
Elrond put down the items he held and mirrored his human son's gesture.  
"I was not aware of the close relationship you had developed with this garment." Aragorn did not answer but merely glared at the elf, and so Elrond added more softly, "Legolas told me what happened to you. I merely wish to ensure that everything is healing well."  
  
"Legolas," Aragorn stressed his friend's name, "still needs to learn when to keep his mouth shut. Has he told you what happened to him, then? Or to Elladan, or Elrohir, or Celylith and Glorfindel? Did he tell you about their injuries?"  
  
"Yes," Elrond nodded calmly. "He did. Legolas, however, is an elf, and so are your brothers, Glorfindel and young Celylith. I know that you are well aware of the fact that the Firstborn heal more quickly than the younger races."  
  
"Oh yes, that is something I do know," Aragorn answered darkly. "I know the limits of my kind – and my own. There are no injuries you would need to tend. I am fine."  
  
The elf cocked his head to the side, a small smile on his face.  
"This is another time your and my definition of the term 'fine' differ vastly, my son. Wounds of the kind that you received in Rhûn are nothing from which a human can recover in a month. You are a healer, Estel; you know that I speak the truth."  
  
Aragorn stared defiantly at his elven father, but when Elrond merely returned the look without batting an eyelid, he lowered his head in defeat. He really didn't know how Elrond did it; one look from the elf and he felt like an insolent ten-year-old.  
"What did my so-called friend tell you then?"  
  
"That you are not completely well yet," the elf lord answered without hesitation. "That you are pale and exhaust more easily than before. That you need to eat and sleep more than you do now, and that all your attempts to pretend that everything is fine have failed spectacularly."  
  
"I will need to write to King Thranduil, I think," Aragorn commented thoughtfully. "The duties of a crown prince are wasted on Legolas. The occupation of a spy or something of the like would be far more appropriate."   
  
"He is concerned about you, Aragorn," Elrond told his son earnestly. "He may not be a healer, but he knows enough to realise that you are not completely well yet. The fact that he doesn't know much about human regenerative powers makes him only worry more."   
  
"I know," Aragorn admitted and hung his head. "He excels at that."  
  
"Let me put his mind at ease then," the half-elf smiled . "It will not take long."  
  
The young man raised his head again and shot his father a wry look.  
"You do not fight fair, _ada_. Making me feel guilty will get you nowhere."  
  
"I beg to differ," Elrond retorted and picked up the healing supplies once more. "And now I would like you to come over here and sit down. And, in Manwë's name, take off that shirt! I do not care how much you like it."   
  
"I will have to have a word with Glorfindel about this," Aragorn grumbled while he reluctantly began to shrug out of his shirt and moved over to the wooden stool at which Elrond was pointing. "I am sure that there is a rule against elf lords using such scheming means to achieve their goals. And if there isn't, there ought to be."  
  
Elrond was about to retort something, but the words he had wanted to speak stuck in his throat in the moment the young man pulled the shirt over his head and sat down. Even though Legolas had told him what to expect he was not fully prepared for the sight that greeted him now, and a small gasp he had not wanted to utter escaped him nonetheless. Aragorn was perfectly aware of his elven father's scrutiny, and so he merely balled up his shirt and lowered his gaze, staring at the crumpled cloth with unseeing eyes.  
  
For a few moments, Elrond did not move at all, but then he blinked and took a deep breath, apparently forcing himself to start moving. He slowly began to walk around the stool Aragorn was occupying, an expression on his face that was so blank that it bordered on downright terrible. Even to an unperceptive person the fury that was building behind that calm façade would have been visible, a fury of a dark, all-consuming kind that was beginning to emanate from the elf's blue-robed figure in waves.  
  
The elf lord came to a soundless stop behind the wooden stool, his eyes as hard and expressionless as his face. This seemed to be the first time that Legolas had not exaggerated the extent of the young ranger's wounds. Most of them were freshly healed and now no more than pink spots of new scar tissue. Even though Elrond had seen many wounds and injuries in his time – and even more than a few on his sons or friends – these were special, and that because of a very simple reason: They were symmetrical.  
  
The wound visible on his human son's torso and arms were nearly perfectly symmetrical; every single one had a mirror image on the other side of the body. It was almost as if someone had folded Aragorn's body at the spine, a mental image that only served to add nausea to the fury that already burned brightly in the elf's veins. Each of the scars was about an inch or an inch and a half in diameter, looking like round, small puncture marks. They were visible all over his chest and upper arms, and even though most of them were healed, there were some that looked still raw and red, and some were still bandaged with lengths of white linen. The half-elf's eyes darkened even further when his thoughts turned to the mindless, uncaring cruelty with which these wounds had been inflicted, and for a moment he had to stop his hands from shaking with rage.  
  
Without even realising it Elrond slowly reached out and touched one of the half-healed marks, pushing some of the young man's dark hair to the side in the process. Aragorn jerked away from the touch as if he had been burnt, and Elrond pulled his hand back just as quickly.  
  
"I'm sorry," both of them said simultaneously. "I did not mean to hurt you," Elrond added.  
  
"You didn't," Aragorn shook his head, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "I just … didn't expect … wasn't prepared…"  
  
The elf did not answer immediately and merely pressed his lips together into a thin white line. He took a deep breath and slowly reached out again, his fingers searching for the end of one of the bandages and beginning to unravel it. The young ranger's muscles were as tense and hard as stone under his touch, and after a second's hesitation he lightly placed his left hand on Aragorn's other shoulder. The man's body seemed to freeze for a moment before he relaxed again with obvious effort.  
  
"I am not going to hurt you," the elf said softly while he took off the bandage and inspected the now exposed wound. "I would never hurt you, Estel."  
  
"I know," the man nodded and swallowed hard. "I know that, _ada_. It's just that…" He trailed off and took a deep breath. "This brings back … memories, somehow. Memories of things I do not wish to relive."   
  
"I see," Elrond retorted as calmly as he could, swallowing the anger and hatred that was welling up inside of him. For a while it was silent while the half-elven healer cleaned and bandaged the wounds that had still not healed completely, with Aragorn staring intently at his hands. The elf lord finally added, "Some of these will need some more time to heal, I fear. Travelling for a month with very little rest has most likely not helped matters either."  
  
"No, most likely not," Aragorn agreed quietly. "But there was a potion of some kind involved. I think it impairs one's natural ability to heal. Or," he corrected himself somewhat bitterly, "a human's natural ability to heal."  
  
"It has to be quite a nasty potion then," Elrond frowned, the part of him that was trained in the healing arts fascinated against his will. "If it does something like this to a Númenórean, I would hate to see what it does to a normal human."  
  
"'Nasty' is quite an accurate description," the man smiled mirthlessly.  
  
The elf merely nodded and bandaged the next few wounds in silence.  
"The man who did this to you," Elrond finally began with uncharacteristic hesitation while he carefully applied healing salve to one of the injuries. "Legolas indicated that he … that…"  
  
"No, he didn't," Aragorn shook his head sharply. "He didn't get the chance." Elrond did not answer, and so the man turned and looked back over his shoulder, locking eyes with his father. "He didn't, _ada_. He didn't … do … something like that."  
  
The elf released a soft sigh of relief he hadn't realised he'd been holding and merely nodded mutely, his eyes still fixed on his work. He took up a rolled-up bandage and began to wrap it around one of the half-closed wounds on the young human's upper right arm, his teeth clenched so tightly that his next words were barely audible.  
"What was his name?"  
  
Aragorn shook his head again.  
"It doesn't matter. He is dead."  
  
"It does matter," Elrond disagreed firmly. "What was his name, Estel?"  
  
"Teonvan," the man finally answered softly, suppressing a shudder that ran through him by the mere mention of that name. "His name was Teonvan, and he is dead now."  
  
"Teonvan," Elrond repeated in an even softer voice, a mixture of hatred and fury tingeing his voice. "How did he die?"  
  
"He was stabbed by Cendan, one of Girion's men," Aragorn replied tonelessly. Elrond did not answer, and so the ranger turned around and fixed the elf with a serious, intense stare. "He is dead, _ada_. I went back to the dungeons after the battle. I saw his body with my own eyes, father. He is _dead_."  
  
His elven father didn't say anything and finished bandaging the rest of the wounds that were still not completely healed. He finally tied off the last bandage, surveyed his handiwork and carefully placed a hand on his son's shoulder.  
"He was more fortunate than he deserved, then," Elrond said, forcing himself not to grip the young man's shoulder too tightly. "I would have killed him for doing this to you, your brothers and the others."  
  
"You would have had to get in line," Aragorn smiled weakly while he unfolded his shirt. "It started with me, went on with Elladan, Legolas, Elrohir and Glorfindel and ended with about every single inhabitant of Baredlen."  
  
"I would have accepted that burden," Elrond assured him in a tone of voice that made very clear that he was dead serious. "And then I would have killed him."  
  
"That seemed to be the initial reaction of every single person who met him," Aragorn joked in a rather obvious attempt to lighten the mood.  
  
Elrond merely looked at him with serious eyes that made the man try to flatten his hair with a nervous gesture as soon as he had pulled his head over his head.  
"I will be alright, _ada_," the man tried to reassure his foster father. "The scars will fade."  
  
"Yes," the elf nodded seriously. "They will, I promise."   
  
Aragorn nodded as well and smiled.  
"Have you gathered enough proof to put Legolas' mind at ease now?"  
  
"More than enough," Elrond announced lightly as he gathered the remaining healing supplies. "I think I can tell him that you will be just fine as long as he and your brothers can refrain from pouring cold water over you or things like that."  
  
"That is of course always a problem," Aragorn admitted seriously.  
  
"I will threaten them with death and doom, of course," Elrond added while he put the last salve pot in the soft grey bag he had brought, "But I have my doubts concerning its effectiveness."  
  
"I cannot imagine why," the young ranger retorted with an innocent impression. He stood to his feet and rotated his freshly bandaged right shoulder, quickly hiding a small grimace. "Thank you, _ada_," he smiled at his elven father. "I feel quite a lot better already."  
  
"Yet another thing about which I have my doubts," the elf returned the smile. "If you come down into the hall now, you might still get some breakfast. It will soon be midday, but I am sure you will be able to find a friendly cook who will have kept something for you."  
  
"I will be there in a minute," Aragorn promised eagerly, the idea of food making him less nauseous than he would have thought possible twenty minutes ago. It appeared that his father's horrible concoction was really as effective as he had claimed – which was not really a surprise, of course. Elrond's potions and medicines always worked exactly as promised. "I'll just change and see if I can persuade my hair to lie flat."  
  
"You are fighting a losing battle there, _ion nín_," Elrond shook his head in real amusement. "Your hair will never lie completely flat, I fear."  
  
"I know," the man shrugged. "But I can't simply give up, can I?"  
  
"No," Elrond shook his head, smiling at the ambiguity that coloured his human son's words. "I suppose you can't." The elf lord suddenly closed the short distance that lay between them and gathered his foster son in a careful embrace, holding him close for several long moments. "I am glad you are back, my son," he said softly. "I missed you and your brothers – and even Glorfindel, if I'm honest."  
  
"Not nearly as much as we have missed you, _ada_," Aragorn retorted, relaxing into his father's embrace and feeling very young all of the sudden. "There were times when I was very certain that I would never see this house again."  
  
"But you were mistaken," the dark haired elf stressed as he stepped back, releasing his son from the hug. "You are here now."  
  
"Yes," the young man affirmed with a small smile. "I am here now."  
  
Elrond returned the smile, feeling calmer than he had this morning before he had come to speak with his foster son, and a few minutes later the two of them left the room side by side to see if there was any food left that Aragorn could charm from the cooks.

  
  
Elvynd sighed deeply, not really knowing whether he was voicing contentment or exasperation. Maybe it was both, and thrown in was a good amount of worry, if not fear.  
  
There were many truly important things he had learnt over the past two thousand years, most of them in an unpleasant and/or painful way. One of them was that anything that was too good to be true usually was, too. Another thing was that just when you thought the worst was over something happened that proved you wrong – most of the time in a horrible way.  
  
And if this wasn't such a time, he would personally eat his sword, complete with sheath, belt and everything else.  
  
The young elf leaned back against the back of the stone bench he was sitting on, sighing once more. Estel, the twins and Prince Legolas had been back for more than two days now, and nothing had been broken. Nothing had been set aflame, nothing had appeared where it wasn't supposed to be and nothing had disappeared entirely. No wild animals had mysteriously found their way into the main house, no one had been drenched in water or any other substance, and nothing had been thrown at anybody. Not even loud shouting or threats had been heard since they had been back, something that – in the opinion of every single elf with whom Elvynd had talked about this phenomenon – was most certainly a first.  
  
Everything was quiet. Everything was peaceful. Serenity and tranquillity were the only things one could sense in the Last Homely House, and even the sun's rays seemed to be exceptionally warm and bright for this time of year.   
  
In short: It was not normal.  
  
One could even go so far to say that it was unnatural, the dark haired captain thought to himself. It wasn't that his lord's sons were immature – far from it, actually, and everyone who would suggest such a thing would find himself with at least a dozen elven daggers at his throat, among them his and his men's. He would gladly give his life for any of them or would risk it in any way they deemed necessary, and he knew for a fact that an overwhelming majority of Rivendell's warriors thought just like he did.  
  
Despite all his loyalty and love for his lords he was not a complete idiot, however, and neither was he blind or naïve. Even if the Lords Elladan, Elrohir and Estel weren't planning certain events to "cheer each other up", as they called it, _things _seemed to happen. No one was able to predict what kind of _things_, but one thing was accepted as the truth by most of Imladris' residents: They usually involved things being set aflame. Or things disappearing, or things (or people) being drenched in water.  
  
Up until now, however, _things _hadn't been happening. Nothing had happened, in fact, something that was beginning to turn Elvynd's exasperation into mild concern. Estel hadn't been seen much outside the house; the young man spent most of his time inside, either in his room or with Prince Legolas and his brothers in the Hall of Fire. It was no secret that he still needed to recover from what had happened to him in Rhûn (even despite Lindir's attempts and that of several other elves it was still unclear what that had been exactly), and so this behaviour wasn't truly worrying him.  
  
Yes, it was slightly unusual for the ranger to actually heed a healer's orders, but this time it wasn't just any healer, it was Lord Elrond. No one in his right mind would actually think of disobeying his lord's orders after having caused him so much worry and grief, however inadvertently that might have happened. No, Elvynd thought with a small smile. Estel might be many things, but he wasn't mad or suicidal – or at least not very much so.  
  
What was really worrying him, however, was the twins' behaviour. They hadn't done anything to try and "cheer up" their human brother, something that was truly astonishing. They were actually helping their father to make sure that the man got enough rest, ate enough and didn't spend too much time outside in the evenings, when the sun had disappeared and it was rather cold and chilly for one of the _Edain_.  
  
No, the dark haired captain shook his head firmly. This was not normal. This was not _natural_.  
  
There were only two possibilities he could think of at the moment that would actually explain the twins' accommodating behaviour: One, they were planning something, or two, they had been possessed by some kind of evil spirit or entity, most likely one of Morgoth's demons that still walked this earth.  
  
He really hoped it was the first possibility and not the second. The two of them could be bad enough sometimes in their natural state; he truly didn't even want to entertain the idea of what they would be like if they were possessed by something, least of all one of the demons of the old enemy.   
  
Then again, he reasoned, he wouldn't want to be the demon possessing one of the twins. Having to share the mind and body of one of them couldn't be particularly amusing. Even suppressing their personalities entirely wouldn't be an easy feat, and not one he wished on a poor unsuspecting demon or spirit only looking for someone to possess.  
  
Well, at least he had some peace and quiet for once. He was off-duty today and so he had come here right after breakfast, to his favourite, secluded spot in the gardens. He hadn't even told Isál where he was; not that it would have mattered much if he had, at least not at the moment. His friend wasn't truly hearing anything that wasn't connected to his object of affection, a behaviour that had become progressively worse these past few days. The elf maid with whom he was madly in love hadn't spoken to him since the New Year Feast or had even looked into his direction, and he was therefore completely crushed and – at least in Elvynd's opinion – only a few steps away from throwing himself off a tree.  
  
Elvynd could really not see why the whole thing was such a big deal – then again, he had never been madly in love either. But really, it wasn't as if the she-elf had had a long, meaningful conversation with Isál! All she had said had been that the weather was very warm and that it was really making one wish to dance. He wasn't completely sure about it, of course, but he thought that she had shot Isál a pointed look at that point. His friend, however, had simply turned a rather interesting shade of magenta at her words and had mumbled something that had sounded astonishingly like "Irelimusgo", only to disappear into the crowd a second later.  
  
The dark haired captain shook his head in a mixture of pity and exasperation. It really was no wonder that Isál was making no progress whatsoever, and if his friend didn't do something soon, he might see himself forced to write the elf maid in question an anonymous letter or something of the sort. True, the young she-elf was not someone to whom one would willingly write anonymous letters – she would probably rip off your head if she ever found out what you had done, or feed you to something vicious and sharp-teethed, or…   
  
"Elvynd!" a loud voice cut through his thoughts as effortlessly as the early noon sun was right now cutting through the low-hanging clouds. "There you are! We have been looking for you for the past hour! Where have you been?"  
  
Elvynd quickly revised his earlier opinion. The twins _were _in fact possessed by some kind of demon, and by a rather malevolent and powerful kind at that. How in the name of all the Valar had they found him? He was sure no one had seen him come here, and he hadn't told anyone of his intentions either! With a soft, almost inaudible sigh the elf resigned himself to his fate and reluctantly turned his head, into the direction of the path.  
  
Striding into his direction were three elves, one with blond and two with dark hair. There weren't many elves with fair hair in Rivendell, and even less clad in the garb of the Wood-elves of Mirkwood. There weren't many elven twins either; they were in fact exceedingly rare. Elvynd didn't really know whether he should cry or feel exceedingly frustrated, and so finally settled on feeling exasperated.  
  
"My lords. Your Highness," he rose a second later and bowed his head in greeting. "I was not aware that you were searching for me."   
  
"I am sure that you would have made your presence known immediately if you had been aware of it," Elladan grinned as he, his brother and Legolas came to a stop in front of the young captain.  
  
"Most certainly," Elvynd nodded, looking just as insincere as his young lord. "How can I be of assistance, my lord?"  
  
"Sit down first," Elrohir took the elf's arm and tugged, gesturing into the direction of the stone bench with a friendly smile on his face. "There is no need to keep standing, is there?"  
  
Before Elvynd could say or do anything, the younger twin had pulled him over to the bench and pressed him down onto it. Elladan sat down on his right and Elrohir on his left, while the fair haired elven prince leaned back against a tree standing in front of the bench. Elvynd gave an inward groan. Just as he had thought earlier: These past few days had been too good to be true. He was cornered like a rat in a trap.  
  
Instead of telling him what they wanted the three elves were looking at him expectantly, giving him the distinct feeling that there was something he should know, as if he were an inattentive student that had been asked a question by a teacher.  
"My lords?"  
  
The three of them were exchanging an unreadable look, and it was Legolas who leaned forward and spoke first, his silver-blue eyes boring into Elvynd's grey ones.  
"First of all: Not a word about this to Estel. As far as he's concerned, you never talked to any of us. Do you understand?"  
  
Elvynd gulped silently, asking himself if it would help if he pretended to drop dead on the spot. Most likely not; the twins were healers, after all.  
"I don't understand, my lord. Where is Estel?"  
  
"Right now he is being examined once again by my father, which is the reason why we managed to sneak away without him noticing," Elrohir explained. "He doesn't know that we are talking to you, and we would like to keep it that way."  
  
"I … see," Elvynd said slowly, looking from one serious face to the next, as if trying to find the answer to their peculiar behaviour written on their foreheads. He wasn't that lucky, he realised a moment later. "No, I do not see, my lords. What exactly is it you don't want me to tell him?"  
  
"We not only do _not want _you to tell him, we threaten you with death and torment should you do so," Elladan explained with a friendly smile. "Is that clear?"  
  
"As crystal," Elvynd nodded his head quickly at the twins. "Would one of you be so kind to tell me what I am not to tell your brother under pain of death?"  
  
"Of course," Elrohir replied graciously. "As you probably have noticed it is the fifth day of _Ethuil_." Elvynd merely stared incomprehensively at him, and so he added, "Or the tenth day of _ Víressë,_ if you prefer the reckoning of Men. Five days have passed since _Yestar__ë _ ."  
  
The other elf's face was still completely blank. It was clear that he had no idea what Elrohir was talking about.  
"Forgive me for saying so, my lord," Elvynd said when Elrohir looked at him expectantly, "But is there a point to this or are you merely reciting various calendars?"  
  
"Of course there is," Elladan assured the confused elf in front of them. "What my dear brother is trying to say is that we were not here on New Year's Day due to … events beyond our control." He ignored Elvynd's amusedly raised eyebrow and continued. "And we didn't have the time or the means to organise a proper birthday gift for Estel either."   
  
Elvynd leaned back against the stone at his back, releasing a silent sigh of relief. This was about presents, nothing more?  
"You want my help to find a proper present for Estel."  
  
"Didn't we just say that?"  
  
"Of course you did, my lords, forgive me," Elvynd mumbled, not really knowing if he should feel amused or annoyed. "What can I do to help?"   
  
"Ah, now comes the interesting part!" Elladan clapped his hands together joyfully. "Give him the list, Legolas."  
  
The elven prince gave the dark haired twin a conspiratorial smile and reached into his light brown leather vest. A moment later his slender hand reappeared, grasping a piece of heavy paper that seemed to have ripped off a longer roll of parchment. Elvynd hesitated for a moment before he took it, reluctance written all over his face. It took him a few moments to skim the list, but then he looked up with rather shocked eyes.   
  
"My lords? Are you serious?"  
  
"Of course we are. Why?" Elrohir asked, such profound innocence radiating off him that it made the young captain's blood run cold.   
  
"Of course you are," Elvynd repeated with biting sarcasm. "What else would you like me to get you, my lords? Another finger from Sauron's hand? A balrog's whip? A Silmaril?"  
  
"Come now, Elvynd!" Elladan shook his head. "If there is one person in Imladris who could actually help us with this, it is you. Your father is in charge of the storage houses, is he not?"  
  
Elvynd knitted his brows as he looked from one of his companions to the next, finally beginning to understand why they had come to him.  
"Everything that is actually ordered from merchants, be they humans, elves or dwarves, has to be cleared with your father, Lord Erestor, Lord Glorfindel or another of the senior councillors. You know that, my lords."  
  
"Of course we know that," Elrohir smiled friendly and nodded at Legolas, who withdrew another slip of paper and handed it to the very unsmiling elf in front of him. "We cleared everything with Erestor."  
  
Elvynd glanced at the paper, his eyes flying over the two lines of carefully written words. He didn't even have to look at the signature to know that this had indeed been written by Lord Erestor's hand; the precise, unhurried handwriting that was not unlike Lord Elrond's was unmistakable to anyone who had seen it before.  
"Then why come to me?" he asked, rather confused now. "You could go to my father yourselves, my lords. He would and could not refuse this request, however mad it may be."  
  
Legolas ignored the last words and shook his head, his eyes darting over their surroundings in a very pointed manner.  
"No, we can't do that. Someone is bound to see us and wonder just what we wanted from him. He or she would tell a friend, who would tell another friend, who would tell it yet another friend. In a matter of minutes the cooks would know, and within an hour everyone else in Imladris, including Estel. Estel isn't stupid; he would figure out that we were planning something like this. What kind of surprise would that be?"  
  
"Not a very good one, I'll admit that," Elvynd mumbled softly. "But … but my lords, do you have any idea how hard it will be to get some of these things? The world isn't exactly becoming any safer, and the trade routes aren't as frequently used anymore. It could take weeks, maybe even months."  
  
"We are perfectly aware of that," Elrond's oldest son assured the other elf. "We are in no particular hurry. Legolas will stay for a while, and we are not going anywhere."  
  
If anything, Elvynd's eyes darkened even further at that revelation. He – along with about ninety-nine percent of his men – had been harbouring the secret hope that his lord's sons and Prince Legolas might be leaving, to do something. He didn't really care what, as long as they didn't get into trouble and were as far away from here as possible. A place like the Gulf of Lhûn came to mind.  
  
"Alright then," the dark haired elf finally nodded his head, accepting the futility of any more protests or attempts to reason with his lords or Prince Legolas. "I will talk to my father. If there is a way to find these items, he will know it."  
  
"I knew that we could count on you, _mellon nín_!" Elrohir exclaimed and clapped Elvynd on the back. That surprised the captain, however, since he had most certainly _not _been planning to help them with this. "Will you notify us should there be any news?"   
  
"Of course, my lord," Elvynd bowed his head, his eyes once again straying to the list in his hands. "But as I said, I think it will take some time to find some of these things. Especially this one here…" He trailed off, pointing at a word at the bottom of the parchment and shaking his head in dismay. "You know how rare it is. We might have to contact Lord Círdan's people."  
  
"We realise that, but it will be worth it," Legolas said determinedly. "This past year has been … hard … on Estel. He needs something to take his mind off what has happened, and if we have to travel to Mithlond or even further to do it, then so be it."  
  
Elvynd nodded slowly, recalling the young man's pallid face when he had last seen him. He had known Estel since he had arrived here as a two-year-old toddler, and had quickly fallen under his spell like many elves in Imladris. He had been a charming child, and even now that he was grown he found it hard to refuse him anything. If there was a way to cheer him up, he would do whatever it took.  
  
"You are right, my lord. I am sure that we can have everything here in a month; maybe even in three weeks if I can persuade my father to use some of his connections. He can be very persuasive if he wants to be."  
  
"Perfect," Elladan nodded, apparently very pleased. "Thank you, Elvynd. You have been a great help, and we are in your debt."  
  
"You are not, my lord," Elvynd shook his head firmly. "I have known that young one since he was two years old. We can't have it that he doesn't get a present for New Year's Day _or _his birthday, now can we?"  
  
"Most definitely not," Elrohir shook his head as well. "Humans grow up much too fast. There is no reason to speed up the process by withholding their presents from them."  
  
"Well said, _gwanur nín_," Elladan grinned at his brother. He shot a quick look at the sun that had managed to free herself of the clouds that had been covering her for most of the day and turned back to Elvynd. "I think we should be going now. Father will soon be finished with him, and if we don't hurry, our dear brother might begin to wonder where we have been."   
  
"And then all this would be for naught," Legolas chimed in, pushing himself off the tree into a standing position. "And that would be a shame, since we have spent the past few days planning all this."  
  
"Indeed," Elvynd nodded, surprising himself by a distinct lack of sarcastic undertones. "I am sure Estel will be very pleased once we manage to put all this together."  
  
"He'd better be," Elrohir grumbled good-naturedly while he and his twin got to their feet. "Considering all this trouble, he'd better start hyperventilating with joy or faint or something like that."  
  
"Faint? Estel?!" Elvynd asked incredulously.  
  
"Don't _say _something like that!" Elladan admonished his brother. "You know our luck! Don't even think of somebody hyperventilating or fainting!"  
  
"I take it back!" Elrohir said quickly and looked about him nervously, as if expecting a handful of Valar to jump out from behind the bushes and announce that they had heard every single word. "I take it back! I didn't mean anything by it!"  
  
"That is your problem: You don't think," Legolas told his friend, giving Elvynd a friendly nod before turning back to the twins and the path. "You never have and you never will."  
  
"Careful, wood-elf," Elrohir threatened the other elf in a low voice. "You are far from home."  
  
"Indeed," Legolas grinned cheekily. "I am a guest here. Your father'sguest."  
  
"That was low," Elladan complained. "Constantly reminding us of that fact won't save you."  
  
"We will see," Legolas' voice reached Elvynd's ears as they disappeared round a bend in the path and vanished from sight. "It has saved me in the past, hasn't it?"  
  
"Things change, Legolas."  
  
The elven prince laughed merrily.  
"Some things never change, my friends."  
  
One of the twins retorted something, but Elvynd was no longer listening. For a few more minutes he remained where he was, staring absent-mindedly at the two pieces of parchment he was still clutching in his left hand. He vainly tried to ignore the papers, willing them to disappear from his mind in an attempt to return to the lazy, unhurried mood from earlier, but it was no use. His thoughts returned to them as if someone had tied them to the parchment with a length of invisible cord.   
  
The young captain cursed and stood to his feet, pushing the pieces of paper into one of his pockets. He would go and ask his father to do his best to locate these items and therefore get the whole thing off his mind. His father was a reasonable elf, and if he told him that this was a favour for the twins who were trying to find a present for their human brother, he would be most accommodating.  
  
Prince Legolas was right, Elvynd decided when he started to walk down the path, into the direction of the left wing of the main house where his father's office was located. Some things never changed, and one of them was that, from time to time, the sons of Elrond behaved strangely. A second was that odd things happened when you least expected them, but that was something that did not really cross his mind.  
  
It would, however, not so many days from now, closely followed by the realisation that "odd" was usually another word for "disastrous" when used to describe anything connected to his lord's sons and their friends.   
  
These things were still in the future though, and so Elvynd had absolutely no inkling of the things that waited for all of them. And that, he would have decided, was probably quite a good thing, too.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...**

  
  
  
  
  
_ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
ion nín (S.) - my son  
Edain (S.) - Humans, the race of Men  
Ethuil (S.) - 'Spring', the first 'month' of the Reckoning of Rivendell. On a modern calendar, the time between the 29th of March and 22nd of May  
Víressë (Q.) - 'April', the fourth month of the year according to the Stewards' Reckoning. On a modern calendar, the time between the 24th of March and the 23rd of April  
Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
gwanur nín (S.) - my (twin) brother  
  
  
  
  
_**Yes, I know: I'm obsessed with foreboding. I need professional help. •g• But it's so much fun! Be that as it may, the next chapter should be here in - nothing new here - a week, in which we'll see a little conversation between Elrond and Erestor (yes, Elrond is having a lot of them lately), those who haven't guessed it already find out the identity of Isál's mysterious elf maid, and Aragorn is having a bad day. Or a bad week, and he also knows whose fault that is... •g• ****And yes, I do love reviews, so every single one of them will be loved and cherished. I mean that literally. •g•  
  
  
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**Additional A/N:  
  
Laurelinde** - It's very nice to hear that you liked it. I wanted to allow Elrond to kill all of them for a while, but then I realised that the story would be over without them and so didn't in the end. Would have been fun, though. •g•   
**Deana** - •g• Well, don't let Erestor hear that. I'm sure he wouldn't be too happy about that description... •g• I like it, though. Thanks a a lot!  
**CSI3** - You can never have too much LotR stuff. •shakes head firmly• No, never. I still have about ten books I want. •shrugs• Well, there's always Christmas, I guess. •g• Great you liked the chapter, and thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**Alison H** - Well, at least my elf lords can fret. •g• I think it's their hobby or something like that... •g• I use sarcasm all the time, which is why I have been voted "Miss Sarcasm" at school. I was rather proud! •g• I, too, needed some time to realise that "To Walk In Night" is TWIN. I don't usually use acronyms, but I have to admit that it's rather funny. Better than ASoT, anyway. •g•  
**Ellyrianna** - Thanks, that's what I think, too. There are lots of stories out there that are nothing BUT torture, and I don't like one of them. My alter ego does, but that's another story. •g• And I hate the movie Elrond, too. I mean, come on, that's not Elrond! That's a jerk, nothing more! Wise elf lord indeed! •shakes head in disgust• Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, once again. I love them! •huggles•  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - I TOLD Elrond to look out for crazy reviewers, but does he listen to me? Huh? Does he? No, of course he doesn't! That's why he and all the others will get into loads of trouble! I'm completely innocent! •g• And LOL, I love the idea of The Eye watching the flower shop! I can just imagine that "I SEE you!!" •big grin• And I agree. Galadriel wouldn't have got heart failure, she would have gone glowy and angry and started babbling about Dark Queens and stuff - you know how she is. •g•  
**Red Tigress** - Yeah, you would start an Aragorn and Legolas Angst category, wouldn't you... I have to admit that I don't really understand what C2 is really about, but I am of course honoured that you added my stories. Thanks!  
**Nikara** - Hmm, I don't really know if I would call Erestor amusing. In a certain way, yes, I think you're right. Just don't let him hear you say that, I'm quite sure he wouldn't agree! He's a little strange... •g•  
**TrinityTheSheDevil** - You could definitely say that! Four hurricanes in a month or two? That's REALLY bad! It's nice to hear that you liked the last chapter, even though I hope you did in fact not slide out of your chair. I wouldn't want you to get hurt! •g• And I totally agree: We are WAY better villains than the male gender. They're just evil, but we look GOOD while planning to take over the world! •g•  
**AngelMouse5** - Well, I thought about letting Elrond kill all of them, at least for a while. But then I realised that it would ruin the story, at least kind of, and so I decided that it'd be better if he'd be understanding and all that... But I have to admit that I don't really understand what you mean. Glorfindel was worried about something before they left for Mirkwood? I must say that I really can't think of anything! Or do you mean before they left for Rivendell?  
**Aratfeniel** - Yes, Glorfindel has indeed such a list. He's a bit strange, not to mention insane. •g• And I don't "rip" my characters "to shreds". I resent that! They're only getting involved in some ... incidents, and besides, it's their own fault, not mine. •nods• Yes, it is. They're stupid and reckless. •g•  
**Snow-Glory** - I like Glorfindel better, too. In the books Haldir was just plain arrogant and in the movies ... no, I won't go into that. It'll only give me nightmares again. •g• Oh, and I COULD disappoint you, don't worry about that. I'm sure I could think of something ... like the dreaded Mary-Sue! What about that? •evil grin• I hope you are better now, colds really are no fun at all! •huggles carefully•  
**Galadhriel Vornionien** - Well, it's a little late for that, I'm afraid. I already HAVE thought about killing Isál - and honestly, would you miss him? You have known him for two chapters, that's not much! But since you're asking so nicely ... •gives dragons and fire-arrows nervous looks• ... I'll think about maiming him instead. I'm not promising anything, but maybe he'll get away with a horrible injury - and Elvynd, too. And I can't kill Lindir, he's canon! Honestly... •shakes head•  
**Arrina** - Nah, I don't think I'll actually write a Lay of Recklessness. Since "Glaer" means more or less "narrative poem", I'll leave that to someone else. I was never good at writing poetry - not that I've really tried, mind you. I always start laughing because I feel so silly... •g• Nice threat, btw. Here's the next bit! •g•  
**Crystal-Rose15** - LOL, so it's now an "experience". Cheers! •g• And are you trying to say that Glorfindel is not realistic? Really, I wouldn't let him hear that; that's not a very nice thing to say about an elf lord... LOL at your pillar-vision! That's hilarious! I never really thought about it like that... •g•  
**HarryEstel** - •g• Who doesn't like familiy moments? Well, I don't if it's my familiy, but other than that... •g• I hope the update was soon enough? Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**Maranwe1** - I think Glorfindel included Aragorn in that statement. Then again, Erestor is certainly devious, too. And so is the rest of Rivendell, so you might be right... •g• And yes, we do indeed know better. Aragorn is human, after all, and needs a bit longer to heal. Which is perfect, because this way Elrond will find out about it... •evil grin• I hope all went well with your essay, and thanks a lot for letting me know what you think! I always love your reviews!  
**Zinnith** - I liked your little dance. Really, I did. Very ... stylish. •g• And I guess you're right, Glorfindel might actually do that. It would have to be a very long list by now, though... •g• As I said in the A/N, I think Celylith will be here, at least for a short while, but I'm not completely sure yet. Ask me again in five chapters or so. And I like the idea of writing a story from a healer's POV. Why don't you do that? Would be very interesting, I think!  
**Marbienl** - Oh, first of all: I can't access that link. I waited for a few days to see if it would go away (yes, I AM superstitious!), but the link won't work. I tried to look it up, so did you mean these pink and green thingies? They are hilarious, though! And whoah! Calm down! I have no idea what kind of disease that was, I've already told you that I never think about things like that! •shakes head• You'll have to wait till my next story is finished - if I should ever write that... •evil grin• And I think that Erestor and Glorfindel actually like each other, they're just so used to bickering that they .. well, can't change. As far as I know no one knows how old Erestor is (he makes only one appearance in all of Tolkien's works as far as I know), I just always imagined him as a serious elf. •shrugs• Don't ask me why. Oh, and who said that there would be any torture this time? I certainly didn't! •g• No, j/k, I'll think about it. We'll see. Oh, and I didn't like the Army of the Dead because they were too ... powerful, if that makes sense. They just appeared and everybody died. It was a little bit over the top, if you know what I mean. •g•**  
Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - •evil grin• Oh, you won't have to wait too long to find about that, I think. As I said, this will be the story Erestor gets into trouble for once! •innocent smile at terrified elf lord• Thanks for your email btw, and I'm glad if I could help!  
**Leela74** - Hey! I like the new pen name, very nice! Congratulations on passing your GCSEs; I know how important they are in the UK. And I can totally understand the C in Maths. From 12th grade on I never got anything better than six points (out of fifteen). My one true failure. •g• Oh, and don't worry about the characters. They'll get their rest. It's a bit shorter than they would have liked, but... •evil grin• And I don't think I could write a fluffy fic to save my life, really!  
**Amelie** - Oh, I can't speak any French at all, which is rather sad considering that it's right next door. I saw the movie in the cinema with subtitles, otherwise I wouldn't have understood a single word. It might be called only "Amelie" in English, I'm not really sure. Would be logical though, wouldn't it? But no, I've never been to Canada, the furthest I got was Florida and Mexico, though I have a friend who was an exchange student for a year. I think she was in Vancouver, but I'm not sure. I might come and visit you one day, just wait! Don't worry about writing reviews, though, RL is really more important. Thanks a lot nonetheless! •huggles•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Yes, BATS. Why don't you yell a bit more, I think they didn't hear you in Philadelphia. •g• And what the heck are "wyverns"? •looks it up• A "fire-breathing dragon used in medieval heraldry; had the head of a dragon and the tail of a snake and a body with wings and two legs"? Sounds ... interesting! I'll have to think about that... •evil grin• And the chapter wasn't short! It was 15 pages long! And yes, I AM noticing that you're writing longer reviews. Well done! •g•  
**Elvendancer** - Yeah, you're right. Delaying the inevitable never really helps, does it? But they are indeed home, in more or less one piece. The reckless ranger isn't quite as well as he thinks he is, as will be shown this chapter... •g• He really IS reckless and stupid sometimes, isn't he?  
**SeventhSpanishAngel 12** - He should have killed them, too. Would have made everything a LOT easier, trust me. •g• And you're right, of course, things are never nice and easy for long. LOL, so he should have thrown the paperweight, huh? Remind me to mention that in Erestor's presence... •g•  
**Grumpy** - •g• Of course he still loves them. They can really be quite silly sometimes. •shakes head• And I absolutely agree: If elves would get grey hair, they would be responsible for every one of them. •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - Strange - my mother once said the same thing. I think it was when I first wanted to borrow her car... •g• I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, I really are ... heck, whom am I kidding? I'm not sorry! Mhahahaha! •shakes head• Sorry, that was my alter ego again. It's getting really hard to control her lately... •g• I hope that this chapter is enough for another week though. •g•  
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - Don't worry about something like that! It's not important when you review - as long as you DO review! •g• I love your reviews, I think I mentioned that before... •g• Imladris would most likely come to a sudden standstill if Erestor wasn't there. He really is a good advisor, I agree, and quite a nice friend, too. Elrond is lucky if you ask me. So you want more of the three-headed flesh-eating ravenous squirrels, huh? Well, I'll see what I can do... And I always respond to reviewers! Honestly! Well, "almost" always, but when I don't, I have a very good reason for not doing it... •g•  
**Isadora2** - He du! Danke noch einmal fuer deine Email - du hast mir wahrscheinlich das Leben gerettet, oder doch zumindest das, was noch von meinem Verstand uebrig ist... •g• Ich bin nicht auf C&S' Mailliste oder anderen Dingen, so dass ich das wahrscheinlich gar nicht mitbekommen haette. Ich MUSS allerdings fragen, was genau ich mir unter "gegenseitigem Ankrabbeln am Vormittag" vorzustellen habe? Liegen dein Mann und du euch vormittags regelmaessig in den Haaren, oder was? Und LOL, "Shootout am OK Corral"! Ist eigentlich eine ganz interessante Beschreibung... •g• Okay, noch einmal Vielen Dank! •knuddel•  
**Radbooks** - Yes, that probably IS what a good councillor does. •pats Erestor• Good boy. Sit. Stay. •g• LOL, so if he's "YOUR" Glorfindel, I'll try not to maim him too badly. I can't kill him anyway since he's canon, so you don't have to worry overly much, I think. •g• And OF COURSE he's yours! •careful look• Sure!  
**Templa Otmena** - LOL, yes, I think it is that breath thing before the plunge. It's a rather accurate description. •g• There are indeed quite a few scenes with Erestor, but I have to admit that the first real cliffy won't be here before ch.5. Don't worry, I'm not ill or anything, I was just feeling rather ... fluffy for a while. Don't worry though, it's over now! I have already injured three out of four, that's not too bad, right? Your plans for the future sound very interesting, even though I have to admit that I hate Anthropology. I tried it for a while, and it was officially the most boring time of my life! But Celtic Civilisation sounds great! I mean it - where are you? I might come and visit you for a term or two... •g•  
**Tychen** - "Quiet uneventful lives". •nods slowly• Yes, a very interesting description... •g• LOL, you are right, of course. Erestor won't have to suffer alone, because our intrepid heroes will soon join him! Lucky him! •g• LOL again, Nili "The Amazing and Magnificent Creator of Dark Deeds"? Thank you! That's a very nice compliment indeed! •g• And come on, do you WANT all to be well? Do you? •satisfied smile• I didn't think so.  
**LOTRFaith** - LOL, I am sure you could make her death very interesting. It sounds very ... creative indeed, I have to admit that! •frowns• Do orcs eat carrots? Or potatoes? •frowns again• They might. As long as there is "man-flesh" involved, I guess they'd eat anything... •g• Hmm, why do you want Elladan to get hurt, and not Elrohir? I have a reason to ask that, so think carefully before answering! I can still change what is to come! And they're more or less fine - physically, that is. Except for Estel, of course, who is unfortunately human and heals more slowly. •evil grin• Poor him.  
**Claudette** - Yeah, I think "upset" describes it quite nicely. Elrond is NOT a happy camper at the moment... •g• And let me see, what is that bad woman up to ... you know, the usual. Evil things like world domination and the like... •g•  
**Just Jordy** - It's nice to hear that you approve of my female villain. I just thought that it would be boring only to have male baddies - we women can be at least as evil and malicious as men! •g• Plus, we look good while plotting to take over the world!  
**Nefcairiel** - Thank you! I'm glad that you liked the reunion, since I wasn't too sure of it myself. Don't ask me why. •Shrugs cluelessly• Most of the time I have no idea why I do the things I do, which is rather disconcerting now that I think about it. •g• Anyway, thanks for the review! It's always great to hear what people think!  
**Crippled Raven** - GCSEs? Oh, poor you, I know how important they are in the UK. They tend to be annoying, inconsiderate little things, don't they? •g• And I resent that! It's not "fluff". It might have been a tiny bit fluffy, but nothing more! I do not write fluff! Understood? •dark glare• Good. Lindir is just a random Rivendell Elf who was mentioned in FotR, even though most people tend to think that he's a minstrel. I haven't really stumbled over that passage yet, so I keep that vague on purpose. Celylith, however, stayed in Mirkwood since his father refused to let him go anywhere in the near future. •g• Poor boy.   
**Shaz1** - •blushes• Thank you! It's very nice of you to say so many kind things - and that in one or two sentences! Thanks! •g• I am sorry for keeping you up so long, though, I did not mean to deprive you of your much-needed sleep. I guess it's a side effect! •g• Thank you very much for your review, it's greatly appreciated!  
**Jera** - •frowns darkly• Believe it or not, I actually thought about that for a while. A part of me wanted to change it into "recklessly etc.", and please don't ask me why I didn't. I'm an idiot. •shrugs• It's actually very nice to hear that someone agrees with me about the whole Lórien-thing. I hate it when authors just do what they want, no matter what Tolkien had to say about the whole thing. I'm a little weird, I'll admit that. •g• I'm very glad to hear that you have found an Internet Café - it's horrible being offline for so long! I'm sorry, but I've got to go now, because I just got bitten by one of my cats. I free his paw and what does he do? He bites me in my right hand, that horrible little creature! I hurts horribly! I think I've got rabies. If I don't post in a week you know what has happened... •g•  
  
**Sorry again for keeping these replies shorter than usual. I just really don't want them to remove my stories and ban my account and stuff like that... •evil glare of death at ff-net•**


	4. Manners of Persuasion

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:**  
  
**Yes, yes, yes, I DO realise I'm late.** **I'm really,** ** honestly, sincerely sorry. The thing is that I have this horrible exam in less than a week, and the more I think about it the more I come to one conclusion, namely that I am doomed. I kid you not. •waves hands melodramatically• DOOMED! •thoughtful look• Now I know why Elrond likes words like "doom" and "doomed" - it's** ** rather relaxing to say them out loud several times... •g•  
  
Be that as it may, I'm really studying and rehearsing right now and have stopped writing, too. There won't be any reviewer responses this chapter either since I really don't have any time right now, sorry. Yes, I am really close to panicking. •g• So the next chapter might be a little late, no later than Thursday or Friday in a week though, I promise - IF I manage to get through that exam alive, that is. •g•  
  
  
Okay, since I don't want to temp fate (or rather ff-net), here's the next bit, still without Celylith, though. Since quite a lot of you wanted him to make an appearance, however, I have decided to try and put him into this story if it's somehow feasible, not to mention believable. I have already locked him into a closet in case he tries to escape... •pats large closet next to her• We can't have that, can we?  
  
Enjoy and review, please!  
  
  
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Chapter 4  
  
  
Elrond was standing in front of the large, carved wooden doors that led to the healing chambers, not really knowing if he was indeed in the right place. Under normal circumstances this wouldn't be where one would expect to find the elf he was looking for, but then again, these weren't normal circumstances since most people insisted on behaving quite madly lately.  
  
The half-elf snorted softly and immediately looked over his shoulder to check if there was another elf in earshot, a more or less instinctive reaction on his part by now. He was, however, alone, something that filled him with quite a bit of relief. Glorfindel wouldn't be very impressed if he heard about this recent trail of thought, and even less impressed if he heard that he had once again snorted. Now that he thought about it, however, he wasn't exceedingly concerned about how elf-lordly Glorfindel thought his behaviour, considering what the golden haired himself had done not too many months ago.  
  
The Lord of Rivendell shook his head inwardly, not really knowing whether he should feel amused or mildly concerned. Glorfindel had gone to great lengths to ensure that the two of them were not in the same room for too long, for that would have given them the chance to speak about what had happened in Rhûn, at least that was what Elrond suspected.  
  
It was beginning to border on positively vexing. After each and every council meeting his blond friend disappeared so quickly that not even Elrond's sharp eyes could follow him, at mealtimes he always sat down as far away from the head of the table as etiquette and courtesy allowed him, and Elrond was sure that he had volunteered for every single shift of guard duty he had come across. In fact, the dark haired elf lord thought sourly, he was indeed convinced that Glorfindel had forced some of his subordinate captains to swap shifts and inspection duties with him so that he could spend as much time away from Rivendell as possible.  
  
One way or the other, his friend had made sure that they hadn't spoken privately for longer than two minutes, and that with such persistency and dogged determination that it would have been admirable if it hadn't been so annoying. He wasn't sure whether Glorfindel was afraid that he would admonish him for his actions or blame him for what had happened (both were things that he was by no means intending to do) or whether he felt guilty that he hadn't been able to prevent his sons and Legolas from getting hurt, but he knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't find out either – at least not until Glorfindel wanted him to.  
  
If there was one thing you could count on, it was that Lord Glorfindel, formerly chief of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin and now Seneschal of Imladris, would never tell you anything that was bothering him when you wanted him to, especially not if it weighed truly heavily on his mind. He would tell you when he was ready to do so and not one second earlier, and anyone who tried to press him on such matters would soon find out that not only the Lord of Rivendell could glare darkly at people.  
  
So, naturally, it wasn't Glorfindel he was seeking out at the moment – one could say many things about Elrond Peredhil, but he was neither stupid nor a masochist, and to actually look for his friend now would be a sign of both. Besides, the chances of finding Glorfindel in the healing chambers were exceptionally slim; the golden haired elf lord was in fact one of the few people who loathed being in the healing wing even more than the twins or Aragorn.   
  
No, Elrond concluded, still resolving to at least try and corner Glorfindel sometime in the near future – he could, after all, be just as stubborn as his fair haired friend. Still, it wasn't Glorfindel he was trying to locate, it was Erestor. Even though it was usually easier to find the dark haired councillor it was proving to be annoyingly difficult today, since he was neither in his office, nor in the council chambers or the library.  
  
After having spent quite some time walking through the corridors of the Last Homely House in a rather confused, un-elf-lordly manner, Elrond had finally located one of his friend's aides, who had been so kind to inform him that Erestor had some business in the healing chambers today. The younger elf had been unable to tell him what kind of business it had been exactly – even though he thought it had something to do with the number and kind of healing supplies they had used the past winter – but he had been reasonably certain that he was still there.  
  
And that was why Lord Elrond Peredhil was standing in front of the doors leading to the healing wing, hoping to find his friend and advisor inside and trying not to think of the trouble that would await him if he was not. They had much to discuss, after all, especially considering that the other elf would be leaving tomorrow. He and the council had come to the conclusion that sending a small delegation to the south was the right course of action and had also decided that Erestor would be leading it.  
  
The dark haired elf hadn't shown any reaction when all had voted in favour of entrusting him with this mission, but Elrond knew that he wasn't entirely happy about it. Still, Erestor was one of the best negotiators Elrond had ever seen, and if there was one person who could actually make sense of what was going on there, it was him. It was something that Erestor knew, too, and also the reason why he had consented to going without a single word of protest.  
  
'And it you don't stop staring at the door instead of opening it, you will never find him, will have to run through your own house like a headless chicken and will have to endure Glorfindel's teasing for the next few decades,' a small voice inside his head commented wryly, a comment that was just as accurate as it was irritating. It was, however, enough to prompt him to reach out, push aside his disconnected thoughts and open the door to quickly step inside the brightly lit room.  
  
It took Elrond's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the bright sunlight that streamed into the rooms of the healing chambers, and for a few seconds he remained where he was, simply taking in the sight. It was nice to come here when there was no one bleeding on the floor or lying on one of the beds in several pieces.  
  
To say that the healing chambers were empty would have been an overstatement, however. There were always healers, junior healers and apprentices moving from one end of the healing wing to the other, talking to each other, in search of some medicine or other or looking after their patients. Even when there were no seriously injured elves that were in need of care and compassion, there were always several people with minor injuries to be found here. Today there were five wounded elves sitting or standing in the room Elrond had just entered, and all of them were talking, awake and apparently none the worse for wear.  
  
Two of them were elflings who were standing in one of the corners of the room, their heads encircled by bandages and both wearing shame-faced expressions while they were being lectured by one of the female healers. It appeared that they had tried to climb the beech tree that was standing in one of the outer gardens; a huge, towering tree to whose tantalising existence they owed about three broken bones a year. The two children had got away lightly it seemed, with nothing more than two bumps to the head and cuts and bruises – much more lightly than Aragorn had when he had tried to climb that tree as a child, Elrond remembered.  
  
Another elf whom Elrond recognised as a woodcarver seemed to have dropped a heavy piece of wood onto his left foot, breaking half of his toes in the process, while the fourth was a member of the kitchen staff who had mistaken one of his fingers for a carrot. The fifth was a warrior who seemed to have had a small mishap involving his training partner's sword and his own forearm, at least judging by the blood that was staining both him and his friend's clothing. The warrior responsible for the unintentional injury was standing next to his wounded friend, apparently torn between concern and the urge to smirk while he watched the other elf being admonished for his carelessness by a junior healer who was bandaging the injury.  
  
Feeling quite relieved that not one of the patients appeared to be seriously injured, Elrond began to look for someone who could tell him where Erestor was – if he was indeed still here. After a few moments he finally spied a flaming-red head that was moving up and down in a fierce manner while its owner spoke to another she-elf, apparently trying hard to make a point.  
  
If the hair colour hadn't given the elf's identity away, the way she spoke insistently to the other elf would most definitely have. There were, after all, not many she-elves with red hair in Imladris, and of the ones that Elrond could have named only one was known to be … well, as quick-tempered as Gaerîn. She was still comparably young, younger than the twins, and despite her kindness and loveliness she was as headstrong and determined as the most thick-headed mule, especially when the matter involved one of her patients. The she-elf Gaerîn was talking to was taller than her and had long, dark hair, and Elrond recognised her as Gelydhiel, one of the small healer's distant cousins.  
  
With a small smile on his lips he began to make his way over to the two she-elves, giving the warriors and the healer to his left a quick nod. It didn't take him long to come into earshot, and the inward smile he had been harbouring grew even wider.  
  
"… only Elbereth knows why!" the red haired she-elf complained darkly while she took rolled-up bandages out of a storage box and sorted them into a shelf to her right. "I will never understand males, I swear I will not!"  
  
The other female healer shrugged eloquently and continued with her own work, namely grinding some herbs into a fine paste.  
"He is a little strange, I'll admit that. But most of them are, aren't they?"  
  
"You could say that," Gaerîn agreed as she shook her head, causing the mass of dark red tresses to sway from side to side. "I don't understand why they do the things they do! What else am I supposed to do, write him a letter? Or draw a picture, or maybe paint a sign and hang it around my neck?"  
  
"That wouldn't do any good," the Gelydhiel retorted, a sly glint in her eyes. "Your neck isn't what he is looking at every time he sets eyes on you, _gwathel nín_."  
  
"He isn't looking at me at all, that's the problem!" the other healer replied fiercely and stuffed more bandages into the space between the two shelves. "He just mutters nonsense and goes red in the face."  
  
"It's rather endearing, really," her friend smiled, apparently still not noticing that their lord had come to a stop only a few feet behind them. "You should go and talk to him. If you give him enough time, he will speak a sentence containing more than three words. Who knows, he might even use one that requires a dependent clause."  
  
"Talking is usually a good idea, my ladies," Elrond's voice interrupted their conversation. "It also depends on what you say, of course, but speaking to other people does have its merits under normal circumstances."   
  
The two younger elves whirled around, a mixture of surprise and mortification on their faces. The dark haired she-elf immediately blushed a deep crimson colour when she saw who it was that had addressed them, while the red haired healer blanched, which, considering the colour of her hair, was probably the comelier thing to do.  
  
"My lord," Gaerîn nodded her head while she and the dark haired she-elf gave Elrond a pair of deep curtsies. "I was not aware that … that you were … well, here."  
  
"My Lady Gaerîn," Elrond smiled and bowed his head. "Is there anything with which I could … help you?"  
  
"Not unless you can infuse random elves with some intelligence, my lord," the red haired she-elf muttered under her breath before she raised her head again and smiled brightly at the dark haired elf lord in front of her. "No, there is nothing with which you could help either of us, my lord. Is there anything we can do for you, however?"  
  
"I believe there is indeed," Elrond nodded, hiding his smile that had grown to improbable dimensions by now. He had only heard a part of this young one's problems with an unnamed elf, but it had been enough for him to understand what this was all about. He shook his head slightly. Sooner or later, this happened to all of Ilúvatar's children, it appeared.  
  
"And what would that be, my lord?" Gelydhiel asked politely.   
  
"I was wondering if Lord Erestor was here, my ladies," Elrond answered with a smile. "I was told that he had come here on some sort of administrative business. Do you happen to know where he could be?"  
  
"He was here no more than ten minutes ago, my lord," Gaerîn nodded. She half-turned and pointed to the left, into the direction of the door leading further into the healing wing. "I think he is still here, over in the small storage chamber. I could go and find him for you if you'd like…?"  
  
"No, that won't be necessary, Gaerîn," the dark haired elf shook his head quickly. "I will go and look for him myself, but I thank you for your kind offer."  
  
The two young healers inclined their heads while he turned and walked over to the door, and when he had almost reached it he turned back around, looking at Gaerîn who was rather busy pretending to concentrate on her work.  
"Oh, and Gaerîn?"  
  
The red haired healer looked up so quickly that it became clear that she hadn't truly been working.  
"Yes, my lord?"  
  
"Listen to your kinswoman," Elrond smiled. "Go and talk to him already, for Varda's sake! He is only one step away from throwing himself off a tree if you ask me."  
  
"Who, my lord?" Gaerîn retorted without batting an eyelid, giving a rather credible impression of an absolutely clueless individual.   
  
"The young, rather tongue-tied captain whose name I have conveniently forgotten," Elrond replied amusedly. "If you give me enough time, I will manage to remember it, however."  
  
"That won't be necessary, my lord," the red haired she-elf smiled nervously and coloured slightly, ignoring her friend's victorious smile. "I think I know of whom you speak."  
  
"I had thought so," the elf lord smiled as well as he turned back around. "Just think about it, please, my lady. I would hate to splint any broken bones in the near future, least of all those of one of my captains."   
  
Gaerîn retorted something a few moments later, but Elrond had already crossed the threshold and left the room. He wasn't exaggerating, truly: He _was _rather sure that the young captain about whom the two she-elves had surely spoken was indeed only a few steps away from trying to commit suicide – or at least from dying of embarrassment. It may be mildly entertaining to watch the young elf's face assume the colour of bricks every time Gaerîn was in sight, but enough was enough.  
  
Elrond shook his head slightly and abandoned that trail of thought when he reached the small storage chamber Gaerîn had been talking about. It was clear that the young she-elf had been right; Erestor was indeed inside the small room. The door was wide open and several lamps had been lit inside the windowless space, illuminating the scenery with a somewhat unsteady, flickering light.  
  
Rivendell's half-elven lord stopped for a moment to once again admire his chief advisor's powers of persuasion – or his ability to stare at people until they did what he wanted them to do. The room on whose threshold he was standing at the moment was indeed small – so small in fact that Elrond had never seen more than two people at a time inside it, and he had designed it more than 4600 years ago, after all. There was simply not enough space for more than two full-grown elves in the storage room, with all the ceiling-high shelves, boxes and crates – or that was what Elrond had always thought until now. Now there were four elves crammed into the small space, and judging by the pained grimaces on the faces of three of them there would be broken bones to splint today after all.  
  
Elrond swallowed the words that were on the tip of his tongue in order to be able to properly savour the sight. One of the three elves was a servant holding a lamp that shed bright light onto a second elf standing so closely next to him that one wouldn't have been able to wedge a single piece of parchment between their bodies. This second elf was one of Elrond's healers, who was holding a long piece of parchment and was obviously reciting various items to the other two elves in the room. One of them Elrond recognised as Erestor's younger aide, a dark-haired, rather taciturn elf who was right now holding another roll of parchment and was also in the process of being squashed into one of the shelves. The fourth elf was Erestor himself, who was peering into several boxes stashed in one of the corners and looking as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself.  
  
The Lord of Imladris hid the smile that wanted to spread on his face and took a step forward, taking care not to step onto the threshold which he knew to creak. Erestor's three helpers heard him nonetheless while the dark haired councillor obviously had not, probably because Erestor was right now poking his head into one of the large boxes, all the time lecturing the others on the despicable way in which the healing supplies were stacked here.   
  
Elrond's inward smile grew when his eyes met the half-hopeful looks the three elves shot him, and with a quick nod of his head he gave them permission to leave the room. That was something they needn't be told twice, and within moments the three had managed to extricate themselves from the corners they had been squeezed into without making a sound, leaving behind only a flickering lamp and two pieces of parchment.  
  
Erestor, however, didn't seem to notice their rather sudden departure, so concentrated was he on what was inside the box.   
"… who is responsible for this?" he demanded to know while Elrond soundlessly stepped closer. "When I return from my journey, I expect to see all of this clearly labelled!"  
  
"I will see what I can do," Elrond smiled at his advisor's back.  
  
With a speed that surprised even the half-elf Erestor straightened up and spun around, avoiding the crate's open lid and two shelves laden with healing herbs, utensils and small boxes in the process.  
"My lord," he inclined his head, doing his best not to show his surprise at finding that the servant, healer and his aide had disappeared and had been replaced with his lord.  
  
"Erestor," Elrond smiled slightly. "You are hard to find, my friend."  
  
"I beg your pardon, my lord," Erestor retorted evenly. "I wanted to finish this before I leave. I hate to leave such things unfinished."  
  
"Yes, I know," Elrond nodded. "There are other things I would wish to discuss with you before your departure, however, if you have a moment to spare."  
  
"Of course, my lord," Erestor nodded readily, but shot the open crate a rather amusing longing look. "I think your healers are more than capable of dealing with this."  
  
Elrond didn't really know what the problem was, but he wasn't about to tell Erestor that. His advisor wasn't quite as bad as Glorfindel, but elf lords still didn't appear clueless in public.  
"I am quite sure they are, _mellon nín_," he smiled again. "Besides, they are more effective if you don't stare at them or lecture them, at least in my experience."  
  
"I didn't 'stare' at them or 'lecture' them," Erestor shook his head while he replaced the open lid and collected the lamps and rolls of parchment. "I merely criticised some of their methods."  
  
"I see," Elrond replied evenly while he waited for the other elf to step out of the room. "I am sure they are aware of that."  
  
"Why wouldn't they be?" Erestor asked, apparently truly puzzled.  
  
"Indeed, why wouldn't they be," Elrond agreed with a small grin. "I am sure you made it perfectly clear to them. In the unlikely case that you did not, however, I will seek them out and explain it to them. If I can catch up with them that is, of course. Right about now they should be on their way to the Grey Havens, most probably somewhere close to Amon Sûl."  
  
"That is a distinct possibility," Erestor nodded calmly, but there was an amused sparkle in his eyes. "They did appear a tiny bit unhappy, I'll admit that." Elrond laughed and shook his head, and so Erestor allowed himself a small smile of his own. "But enough of this, my lord," he added more seriously while they walked down the corridor leading to the larger rooms of the healing wing. "How can I be of service?"  
  
Elrond didn't answer immediately, thinking about how he should best address this. Bluntly, he decided a moment later. Glorfindel and Erestor might be as different as night and day, but they did have a few things in common, and one of them was that beating around the bush got you absolutely nowhere.  
  
"I want you to take more guards with you when you leave tomorrow," he finally said. "Six are not enough, not if you should encounter any serious problems. We do not know what exactly is going on there, and any number of things could go wrong. You know that."  
  
"Yes," Erestor nodded his head. "I do know that. But we have talked about this before."  
  
"And still you are not listening, Erestor!" Elrond exclaimed, a part of him truly annoyed. "I am perfectly serious about this! Captain Elvynd is an experienced warrior, and so are his men, but half a dozen guards are simply not enough to guarantee your safety!"  
  
"Then how many would be, my lord?" Erestor asked, rather unimpressed by the other's outburst. He knew that Elrond wasn't truly angry with him, he was only worried. And when Elrond was worried, he was prone to losing his temper just like his oldest son; everyone in Imladris knew that. "A dozen? A score? A hundred?"  
  
"Yes," Elrond nodded darkly. "Any of these numbers would be acceptable, even though I would prefer the last one, I think."  
  
"I was not aware that you wanted me to wage war, my lord," Erestor raised an amused eyebrow. "If that should be the case, I would advise you to assign Glorfindel to this duty. It is he who is the captain of our forces, not me."  
  
Elrond took a deep breath and obviously tried to regain control over his emotions, all the while glaring daggers at his entirely too unconcerned advisor. There were not many people who would dare speak to him like this when he was in such a mood, but Erestor had never been afraid to speak his mind. Which was why he was his chief advisor, of course.  
  
"I do not want you to wage war, my Lord Erestor," the dark haired half-elf finally clarified in something that could have been called an icy tone of voice. "You know that. But I would like you and your escort to return in one piece, if somehow possible. Even the best information will be of no use to us if the messengers are dead and can therefore not deliver it."   
  
"And I will not be able to deliver any news or information if you send more than half a dozen guards with me, my friend," Erestor replied seriously. "If we want to find out what is going on in the South, we cannot arrive there armed to the teeth and accompanied by an army! More than six or seven soldiers make the inhabitants of small towns nervous, and deservedly so. The fact that we are elves is already bad enough; we need not add to the suspicion and hostility by appearing on their doorsteps ready for war."  
  
"And what if it should come to it?" Elrond asked softly and stopped, giving the door leading to the main healing room a quick look to make sure that they were still alone. "What if things have already deteriorated so far that you arrive there to find yourself at sword's point?"  
  
"Then I will have miscalculated," Erestor admitted, a grave look in his eyes. "And yet I stand by my words. Besides, we come to negotiate with them and not as enemies. We are on a diplomatic mission, and are protected as such under every rule of peace or war."  
  
"You expect them to adhere to the same rules as you," the other elf pointed out calmly.  
  
"If they have any honour at all, they will. We only want to find out the truth about what is happening there."  
  
"That is what worries me," Elrond shook his head slightly, a sad timbre in his voice. "The truth is the first casualty of any war and has been since the shaping of this world, and more often than not this applies also to honour and integrity. Varda's Domes above, we do not even know these people well enough to predict their behaviour! For all we know, they might only be looking for a reason to abandon all rationality and restraint, a reason which war usually grants the Second People!"   
  
His advisor was too old and experienced to challenge his lord's claim, having been in more than one war himself, and so he only returned his searching look evenly.  
"It is your decision, my lord," he inclined his head minutely. "If you wish me to take more men with me, command me and it shall be done."  
  
"And you would never let me forget this should it become obvious that I erred," Elrond added with a small half-smile.  
  
"Most likely not."  
  
Elrond's smile widened and he looked at the other elf for a long time before he shook his head slowly and regretfully.  
"Then I will not go against your wishes in this matter, my friend, no matter how appealing that thought might be. Six guards it is."   
  
"Thank you, my lord," Erestor inclined his head. "You will not regret this."  
  
"That still remains to be seen," the dark haired elf lord replied seriously. "I pray to Ilúvatar that you are right, _mellon nín_, because if you are wrong and I do regret it, I will not be the only one to do so."  
  
Erestor did not reply anything and merely inclined his head, and after looking at him with that serious expression Elrond finally took up his walk once more. He hadn't remained silent because he was unwilling to disagree with his lord, Erestor thought darkly while he followed the dark haired elf into the direction of the main staircase. He had never been disinclined to tell people what he thought, not Elrond, not Glorfindel and not anyone else, and he did not intend to change that attitude now.  
  
No, the councillor shook his head inwardly, he had remained silent simply because Elrond was right. If he was wrong and something did indeed go wrong, they would all regret it, most of all Captain Elvynd, his men and he himself.

  
  
He would wring that wood-elf's skinny little neck. It wasn't an idle threat or a spur-of-the-moment thing. He had everything planned out, in a very unambiguous and defined manner. Or he would skin him alive, yes, that was what he would do. He even had a contingency plan: In the rather unlikely case that something foiled his carefully laid plans, he would beat that dratted elf's head against a wall. He had always wanted to see how much damage an elven head could do to a stone wall before it cracked.  
  
Aragorn frowned, torn out of his rather enjoyable thoughts by a small stab of confusion. Or had it been how much damage a stone wall could do to an elven head before it cracked? He wasn't completely sure anymore, since it might very well have been this way around. He had always thought that his brothers and father had skulls made out of hardwood, if not solid stone, after all, and it wouldn't surprise him in the slightest if Legolas' head should prove to be the same.  
  
The young man's frown deepened even further, something that would have astounded a casual observer. Legolas. That gossipy, traitorous, annoying, patronising, _sorry_ excuse for one of the Eldar! It was all his fault, his and no other's. If he hadn't told his father that he "wasn't completely well yet" and several things of the same kind, he wouldn't be here, all but a prisoner in his own home!  
  
The dark haired ranger's mood dropped to new, abysmal levels. "Not completely well yet". How in the name of Eärendil's light would Legolas even know? He was no healer, he was no Vala and he most certainly was not Eru Ilúvatar. He wasn't even a Maia, unless he had been seriously unobservant and he was in reality Gandalf in disguise. Or maybe not Gandalf, Aragorn added with an evil grin. Maybe he was really Eönwë, or, better yet, Melian, prissy elf that he was. That would make him one of Aragorn's ancestors, however, which was really nothing he really wanted to think about, and…  
  
A soft knock on his door caused the ranger's idle thoughts to trail off into nothing, and he lazily rolled onto his stomach to face the door. Aragorn crossed his arms and bedded his chin on his left forearm, giving the large wooden door a speculative look. There were only a handful of people who would actually dare visit him; all his other friends and acquaintances wisely gave him wide berth at the moment, and had done so for the past four or five days.  
  
So, Aragorn asked himself while he counted the seconds that had passed since the knock, who would it be? His father had already been here for half an hour or so and had left a few hours ago to have a word with Erestor. Glorfindel was still hiding from Elrond for all he knew, so that left only one of the healers, his brothers, or…  
  
A second knock sounded on the door six and a half seconds after the first one, a more impatient one this time. The young ranger didn't really know whether he should feel gleeful or annoyed, at least not for a few seconds. Six and a half seconds and already impatient. That could only be Legolas.   
  
Aragorn sighed and put up that decision for later. If he didn't invite him, Legolas would probably break down the door.  
"Enter!"  
  
The door was opened as soon as he had uttered the first syllable and a frowning Prince of Mirkwood entered the room, his eyes glinting suspiciously or faintly concerned. Or both, Aragorn thought, faintly amused.   
"Did I wake you, Estel?" the elf asked in mild concern as he closed the door behind him, having obviously decided to give his human friend the benefit of the doubt. "If I did, I apologise."  
  
"Oh, you should," Aragorn retorted darkly, but didn't move an inch from were he was lying on the bed. "Oh yes, you should."  
  
"You were asleep, then?" Legolas raised an eyebrow and shot the man a suspicious look. It was long past midday; he hadn't thought that Aragorn was _this _weak!  
  
"No," Aragorn smiled sweetly. "I was not."  
  
"Then why should I apologise?" the fair haired elf frowned in confusion while he moved closer to the bed the man was occupying.  
  
"Because," the man started, still smiling in a rather disconcerting, friendly manner, "you got me imprisoned here. It is your fault, and the least you could do is apologise."  
  
"I? Got you 'imprisoned'?" The elf's eyebrows rose to unheard-of heights. "You cannot be serious! I did nothing of that sort!"   
  
"You told my father, and I quote, that I was 'not completely well yet', did you not?" Aragorn asked sourly. "And lo and behold, he all but locks me in my room! What a surprise! That is why you have been hiding these past days, admit it!"  
  
"I have not been _hiding_," the elven prince shook his head indignantly. "I was … busy," he finished rather lamely.  
  
"Busy," Aragorn repeated, profound disbelief in his voice. "Of course you were – contrary to me. I haven't done anything these past five days, did you notice? Not even the twins will help me this time, and the person whom I considered to be my best friend," he shot Legolas a pointed look, "has not only betrayed me but abandoned me as well because he was 'busy'! I am not even injured this time, for Eru's sake! And do you know whose fault this is?"   
  
"I couldn't possibly fathom a guess," Legolas retorted deadpan.  
  
"Let me enlighten you then, my friend," Aragorn smiled once again. "It is yours! Yours and Glorfindel's, but yours more than his, since he has to answer to _ada_, after all. You, on the other hand, are not bound by such an obligation."  
  
"You give my valour more credit than it deserves," Legolas quirked an amused eyebrow. "I freely declare here and now that I am neither brave nor suicidal enough to deny your father the answers he seeks when he is concerned about you. Not even Tulkas himself would be reckless enough to do such a thing, and that, my friend, means quite a lot."  
  
That was something not even Aragorn in his foul mood could dispute, because he had found himself more than once on the wrong side of one of the half-elf's questioning stares. After ninety seconds of such a _look _even the most determined and strong-willed beings, millennia-old elf lords included, tended to break down and tell Elrond all he wanted to know. He had seen it happened more than once and, Eru be his witness, it was not a pretty sight.  
  
Still, the man added, he would be damned if he admitted that, and in front of Legolas of all people.  
"Hmpf," he merely grumbled and took his chin off his arm to give the elf a disapproving look. "Fine. You are right."  
  
"Of course I am," Legolas smirked as he pulled an armchair closer to his friend's bedside. "But I really don't understand why you are so ill-humoured, _mellon nín_. There is no one keeping you here. If you wish to leave, do so."  
  
"Hear, hear!" Aragorn stared at the other with wide eyes and sat up in a flash. "No one keeping me here, eh? I must say that I am somewhat surprised that the keen eyes of an elf, and a wood-elf at that, are so easily deceived!"  
  
"Unless you are referring to tapestries, carpets and the insidious things called sculptures, I truly have no idea what could bar your way."  
  
A small grin spread over the young man's face that disappeared as quickly as it had come. He was in a bad mood after all and would certainly not allow Legolas to lift his spirits.  
  
"Aye, there are always the sculptures," he admitted. "You never know when they'll lunge at you from behind!" Legolas grinned as well now, and so he added with a pointed look at the door, "Sculptures, however, are not all that's waiting outside. As soon as I take even a single step out of this room, I shall be beleaguered by a pair of healers, mark my words. They will haunt my every step, just to make sure that I am not 'overstraining myself'."   
  
The elven prince raised an eyebrow in amusement.  
"What are you talking about? There are no healers outside your room!"  
  
"Oh yes, they are," Aragorn muttered disheartened. "Trust me, my friend. They are lurking somewhere, most likely in a dark corner, and as soon as I cross the threshold of my room, they shall know and appear faster than you can say 'I am fine'. _Ada__'s_ orders, no doubt."  
  
Legolas' brow furrowed and he slowly nodded his head when he remembered that he had indeed seen someone outside Aragorn's room. A small, red haired she-elf who seemed to have arrived a moment before he himself had.   
"You could be right, you know," he told the scowling man. "I saw that red haired healer outside, what's her name? Gaerîn?"  
  
"That's her," Aragorn nodded darkly. "Though we like to call her 'Scourge of Our Existence'."  
  
The blond elf laughed then, a sound full of irrepressible mirth and a hint of incredulity.  
"She is not that bad, Estel!"  
  
"You know she is," the man shook his head sourly. "She is the one healer even Glorfindel fears, and that means quite a lot in my opinion." He fell silent for a moment before he turned suspiciously innocent eyes on his fair haired friend. "The door is therefore not an option. I am, however, fortunate enough to possess a room not only equipped with a door, but also with two windows and a balcony. What a stroke of luck, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Oh no," Legolas held up his hands and would have backed away had he not been sitting in an armchair. "No. Definitely not. Not in this lifetime, and not in another. No, Estel."  
  
"You haven't even heard what I have to say!" Aragorn complained.  
  
"I do not need to," the elf shook his head. "I am not helping you to climb down from the windows! No!"  
  
"I do not want to climb down from the windows," Aragorn corrected Legolas friendly. "I was planning to jump onto the next balcony a level below us and escape before anyone notices."  
  
"Jump?" Legolas repeated in the same tone of voice he would have used had Aragorn told him he intended to take a swim in the lava-pools surrounding Barad-dûr. "Jump?!"  
  
"Yes, jump," the man nodded at the wide-eyed elf while he put on his boots. "Should you know a way to fly from balcony to balcony, however, tell me, I beg you. It would make everything much easier."  
  
"Jump?" Legolas repeated once more, apparently oblivious to the other's words. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses? If you fall, you will plummet straight into the Bruinen! You are a man! You can't jump!"  
  
"I can," Aragorn assured him and did a quick hop on the spot to prove his point, something that made Legolas only madder. "And I will not fall."  
  
"Oh? And you know this how exactly?" Legolas asked scathingly, unsure whether he should feel amused or infuriated. He and the twins had done what Aragorn was proposing countless times, but they _were _ elves. Aragorn was a man, and therefore less agile and sure-footed than they, something that no amount of training would ever be able to change. "Have you had any visions lately? Or a conversation with Mandos or the Lord of the West, perhaps?"  
  
"No and no," Aragorn grinned, his mood apparently much improved by the elf's incredulous indignation. "Yet I know that I will not fall, out of the simple reason that you won't let me."  
  
"I?" Legolas blinked. "I? I have told you before, Estel, that I will have no part in this mad scheme!"  
  
"Ah, but you will, _Lasseg_," the man stressed the last word, an evil glint in his eyes.  
  
Legolas' mouth opened fractionally as his jaw went slack in a mixture of indignation and anger, and his eyes narrowed to cold, silver-blue slits.  
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed at the grinning ranger. "By Elbereth, you wouldn't dare!"  
  
Aragorn merely raised an eyebrow in an unbearably smug manner and returned the look evenly, something that awoke in Legolas the very vivid urge to kill that insolent little creature that some people considered a human. "Lasseg" was the Sindarin equivalent of his hated nickname "Leafie", a name he had been given by a spider of all things, a baby Mirkwood spider by the name of Wilwarin.  
  
His best friend back in Mirkwood, Celylith, was a tiny bit strange (less friendly people would have called him mad, however), and possessed a dangerous and for an elf rather unnatural love for strange, horrible creatures. He always insisted that said monsters were adorable and only horribly misunderstood, and seemed to spend most of his time trying to find some monstrous creature or other in need of his sympathy and protection. His two most memorable pet projects had been said spider and a huge, exceedingly ill-tempered ox, one of the Kine of Araw. Both pets had nearly killed all of them at one time or other, and before Legolas had forced Celylith to set the "adorable, perfect little spider" free, the thing had seized the chance to insult him to its heart content.  
  
That wasn't the worst part, however. The twins and Celylith knew of his nickname "Leafie", something that was unfortunately irreversible. Aragorn, however, was the only person who knew that Legolas himself had claimed that his name was Lasseg, namely when he had been captured by Girion's soldiers earlier this year. The leader of the group had wanted to know his name, and Legolas had said the first thing that had come to his mind. There was no telling what Celylith or the twins would say or do if they ever found out about all this, and the mere thought was enough to send cold shivers of horror down the prince's back.  
  
Legolas took a deep breath and blinked away the red, bloodthirsty haze that had laid itself over his vision. He would try to reason with that insolent man before he threw him out of the window. Aragorn was practically begging for it, wasn't he? Lord Elrond would surely understand.  
  
"I would … strongly advise against telling anyone about that … name," he stated carefully, giving Aragorn a look that would have impressed even the most stubborn of his father's councilmen. "I thought we had an agreement about that?"  
  
"You might have agreed on that," Aragorn shrugged, infuriatingly unimpressed by the fair haired elf's fiery stare. "I haven't, however."  
  
"This is blackmail!" Legolas exclaimed, outraged.  
  
"Blackmail is such a negative word," Aragorn shook his head in mock sadness. "I for my part have always preferred the term 'knowledge-based persuasion'."  
  
Legolas' eyes didn't exactly catch fire at that, but it was a close thing.  
"Fine," he snapped at the man. "Fine! I'll help you, but if you slip it will be _your _fault and _you _will have to explain it to your father and brothers, because _I _will be on my way home!"  
  
"Fine!" Aragorn repeated with a bright smile. "That is all I want."  
  
A half-indignant, half-incredulous snort was his only answer, and so he merely followed Legolas over to the window without another word. He hadn't truly thought that Legolas would help him; the elf had been the most annoying of all his self-appointed "caretakers" until now. He admitted that he had been weary and exhausted when they had arrived, but that had been nearly five days ago, for Manwë's sake!  
  
Even though he had been telling himself – and every other person who was in hearing range – that he was just fine and really didn't need to rest in the slightest, he was slightly surprised when the climb down the balcony went smoothly. He didn't slip once, not even when he followed Legolas over the railing of his balcony to jump to another one to the right of his room. The thought that this would prove to everyone that he was indeed healed was quickly followed by the realisation that, should he tell anyone what he had done, he would be lectured for hours on end (if he was lucky), and so he joined Legolas on the ground five minutes later, his mood not quite as bright as it had been a few moments ago.  
  
He looked back up at balconies above their heads, making sure that no one had noticed their rather unorthodox departure, before he turned mischievously glinting eyes on the stony-faced elf next to him.  
"Wonderful," he told Legolas in a rather fake, cheerful tone of voice. "What are we going to do now?"  
  
"I do not know, _mellon nín_," Legolas said silkily, "but since we did not have any agreement about it, I think _I _will go and visit Rashwe."  
  
Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the elf. Legolas knew perfectly well that he would never go anywhere near the white horse, at least not voluntarily, and most certainly not in an enclosed space like the stables. He didn't have a death wish, after all.  
"Well," he began while he still tried to determine whether Legolas was serious or not, "I…"  
  
He was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps before he had even figured out what he was going to say. Their earlier words forgotten, the two friends exchanged a mildly worried look while they listened to the sounds of two approaching elves. This part of the gardens wasn't exactly frequently visited by many elves, which was exactly why it was being overlooked by Elrond's family's living quarters.  
  
Legolas didn't hesitate long. If they were caught here by one of the healers, who, after all, might have heard or seen their escape, it would be his head Lord Elrond would nail on his front door, not Aragorn's. That was of course exactly why he couldn't allow anyone to see them standing under Aragorn's balcony, and least of all a healer. With a movement almost too quick for the mortal eye to follow, he grabbed Aragorn's tunic and began to haul him over to a small grove of trees which would hopefully give them some cover, but before they had even reached the lawn in front of them, two elves walked around the corner of the building, idly following the path and deep in conversation.  
  
Both of them froze, standing on the path in a manner very similar to that of startled rabbits. They needn't have worried, though. The two dark haired elves were far too immersed in their conversation to pay something as insignificant as their surroundings any heed at all.  
  
"…the only way," one of them said determinedly and nodded his head to emphasise his point. "Are you going to help me or not?"  
  
That was Isál, Legolas realised a moment later. And with him was Elvynd, something that didn't come as a surprise. The two of them appeared to be nearly as inseparable as the twins.  
  
"Let me summarise your rather incoherent ramblings," the dark haired captain retorted, his grey eyes narrowed in either amusement or confusion. "You want me to throw you off a tree? Did I understand that correctly?"  
  
"Yes," Isál nodded readily. "Well, it doesn't necessarily have to be a tree. A balcony or one of the pillars would work, too."  
  
"And," Elvynd raised a dark eyebrow, "what am I to say if someone inquires as to the reason for my sudden homicidal tendencies?"   
  
"You're not doing it on purpose, of course," the other elf assured his friend.  
  
"I am not?"  
  
"No, of course not," Isál shook his head patiently. "Nobody would believe it anyway. It would have to be an accident, you could say that you…"  
  
It was then that the younger of the two caught sight of the two beings in front of him, and he came to a sudden stop, one of his hands shooting out and grabbing Elvynd's shirtsleeve to make him stop, too. The two captains merely stared at the fair haired elf and the ranger in front of them, who were right now rather busy arranging their faces into expressions of profound innocence.  
  
As if on an unspoken signal their eyes wandered from the two innocent faces to the trees behind them to the balconies overheard, and Legolas could almost hear as the pieces fell into place. After a rather long pause Elvynd and Isál seemed to come to the conclusion that they didn't want to know and gave the two friends a pair of quick bows.  
"Good afternoon, my lords."  
  
"Good afternoon!" Aragorn replied with a friendly smile while he inconspicuously tried to free his tunic of Legolas' grasp. The elf had one of his fists still bunched in the green material, something that he didn't even seem to notice while his mind furiously tried to come up with an explanation that would satisfy the two elves in front of them. "So," the man added, managing to pry Legolas' fingers loose, "nice warm weather we're having, isn't it?"   
  
Next to him Legolas fought the urge to beat his head against a wall. If there was a stupider thing Aragorn could have said, he certainly couldn't imagine what it might be. Elvynd and Isál seemed to think much the same, but they were far too polite to voice such a thought.  
"Indeed," Elvynd nodded and shot the young man a suspicious look. "Are you well, Estel?"  
  
"Yes, he is," Legolas answered before Aragorn could say anything even more moronic. "He is just fine, aren't you, my friend?"   
  
Even without Legolas' elbow that was thrust into his ribs Aragorn would have nodded – something that seemed to impress neither of the dark haired captains. Isál was just opening his mouth, about to ask another question, when Legolas decided that attack was always the best defence, and so he interrupted the other before he had even spoken the first word.  
"Why do you want Elvynd to throw you off a tree?"  
  
Isál's mouth closed with a small snap and he immediately assumed the colour of dark, ruby-red wine. It was a most impressive display, and Aragorn and Legolas watched it with quite a bit of fascination. Finally Elvynd answered for his friend, a small smile lurking in his eyes.  
"Well, you could say that…" The elf trailed off when he saw the desperate gleam in Isál's eyes. "It is a … game of some sort, my lords."   
  
Isál gave his friend a deeply grateful look, but Legolas and Aragorn merely looked at other, clearly not convinced.  
"A game?" the man repeated. "Whoever throws off the other first wins, is that it?"  
  
"Yes," Elvynd replied seriously. "Exactly."  
  
"Rubbish," Aragorn shook his head curtly. "I wouldn't put something like this past my dear brothers, but you two are too sensible for it. What were you talking about? The truth please, this time."  
  
Isál and Elvynd exchanged a long-suffering look, and the older of the two finally shrugged. They knew Estel well enough to know that the man wouldn't rest until he had found out what they were hiding from him, and, truth to be told, neither of them was in the mood for something like that.  
  
"Alright," Isál finally said reluctantly, his eyes darting from Aragorn to Legolas and back to the man. "I will tell you, but only if you promise not to tell anyone. Especially not the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. They would want to help."  
  
The ranger and the elven prince exchanged an amused look.   
"Agreed," Legolas finally said. "We will not tell them."   
  
Isál nodded, apparently satisfied by the Silvan elf's promise, but he didn't say anything. He opened and closed his mouth, apparently fumbling for words, and so it was once again Elvynd who answered for his friend.  
"He needs an excuse to visit the healing chambers. There is someone there who … well … someone he wishes to see…"  
  
The two beings in front of him merely blinked, apparently not really understanding what he was talking about, but then understanding began to spread over their faces.  
"Oh," Aragorn commented with wide eyes. "_Oh_! I see."  
  
Legolas was a little less shocked and grinned openly at the obviously embarrassed Isál.  
"Who is it then, Isál? One of the healers, or an apprentice, perhaps?"  
  
Some small, spluttering sounds could be heard that, with some imagination, could have been called words, but they were too soft to be understandable. Aragorn watched the brown haired elf for a while, wondering how it came that love turned a confident warrior into such a state.  
  
"Isál?" he asked finally. "Who is she? One of the healers, no doubt?" Isál still didn't answer and Elvynd was far too busy trying not to laugh to say anything, and so Aragorn quickly went through the list of she-elves he knew to work in his father's healing chambers. There weren't too many unmarried or unpromised female healers of the right age, and so he quickly raised his head again, a small grin on his face. "It is Gelydhiel, isn't it? She is truly beautiful, my friend, I give you that!"  
  
Elvynd's chuckles grew only louder, and Isál shook his head, misery written all over his face.  
"No," he managed to grind out, his face now the colour of sun-ripened grapes. "Lady Gaerîn."  
  
Aragorn merely stared at the mortally embarrassed elf, his eyes the size of small plates.  
"Gaerîn?" he repeated rather faintly. "Gelydhiel's kinswoman? The redhead? _Gaerîn_?"  
  
Isál nodded wordlessly, destroying the scenario Aragorn was building in his mind, namely that there was another she-elf with that name living in Imladris, unlikely as that may be. He had never looked at Gaerîn in another manner than that of someone trying to discover his enemy's habits and weaknesses, and had therefore some trouble imaging what Isál would see in the quick-tempered, somewhat overbearing healer. Now that he thought about it, however, he had to admit that the elf maid in question was indeed quite beautiful, even for one of the Firstborn. Her hair colour was rare enough to give her a somewhat exotic air, and if there was one thing he would never think to deny, it was that she had spirit.  
  
"That is quite a task you have set yourself," Aragorn finally smiled, at a loss what to say. "But is she worth jumping off a tree?"  
  
Isál gave the young man an annoyed look. Only someone who had never truly been in love could ask such a daft question.  
"I would jump off Barad-dûr for her and sing the entire way down."  
  
"She'd probably clout you if you did that," Elvynd snorted softly. "And she'll do the same if she finds out you've jumped and didn't fall, you thick-headed idiot."  
  
"So she mustn't find out," Isál shrugged, unimpressed. "Will you help me or not? Since you're leaving tomorrow, I need your answer now and not in a few decades, you know."  
  
"Leaving?" Legolas asked. "Where are you going?"  
  
"Some of my men and I are escorting Lord Erestor south," Elvynd explained curtly. "One of the human towns we are trading with is having some sort of altercation with one of the neighbouring settlements; at least that's what I think. Lord Erestor is to find out what exactly is the problem, and is supposed to mediate if somehow possible. I have been there quite a few times, so my men and I will accompany him."  
  
"Ah, now I understand," Aragorn grinned slightly. "You can count on our help, Isál. I am sure we can come up with something that will land you in the healing chambers if you give us a little time."  
  
The brown haired elf smiled painfully.  
"I was afraid you were going to say that, Estel."  
  
"We're always glad to help," Legolas grinned as well. "Are you coming?"  
  
The two other elves exchanged a quick look.  
"Coming, my lord?"  
  
"Well, you want to jump off a tree, is that not correct?" Legolas asked patiently, apparently rather amused by this entire situation. "What kind of gentlemen would we be if we allowed you to undertake such a dangerous endeavour all by yourselves? We will be your witnesses!"  
  
Isál swallowed quickly.  
"I don't really think that's necess…"  
  
"Nonsense," Aragorn shook his head, took the reluctant elf's arm and began to steer him into the direction of the large beech tree on the other side of the gardens. "I know just the perfect tree; the Valar know I have fallen off it enough times myself!"  
  
Elvynd and Legolas looked after the other two for a few moments before they began to follow them, an identical, amused smile on their lips. While they were still listening to Aragorn and Isál who were discussing how high the latter would need to climb before "falling off", Elvynd turned to the fair haired elf, a serious expression on his face.  
  
"Will you look after him when I'm gone, my lord?" he asked, softly enough so that only Legolas would hear him. "Don't let him jump off anything too high, and keep him away from any orcs. I think he's ready to do about anything to have an excuse to talk to Gaerîn."  
  
"Don't worry," Legolas smiled at the dark haired elf. "When you return with Lord Erestor, they'll be betrothed; we'll make sure of that."   
  
Elvynd snorted softly and shook his head.  
"This has been going on for more than a _yén_, your Highness. If they actually had a real conversation by the time I return, I will be impressed."  
  
"We'll see," the elven prince smiled. "There is always poetry as a last resort."  
  
Ignoring the highly sceptical look on Elvynd's face, he continued to describe all the way in which Isál could win fair Gaerîn's heart. A few moments later they had disappeared around the corner of the house, intent on helping Isál to jump off a tree. Nobody stopped them to ask what they were up to, and even if they had told the truth, no one would have been overly surprised by their answer.  
  
This was Rivendell, after all, where such things happened quite often.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...**

  
  
  
  
  
_gwathel nín (S.) - my (sworn) sister, •cousin  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
yén (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
  
  
  
  
_**I really can't believe that some of you thought Isál had fallen in love with the female villain. •shakes head• He might be slightly insane, but he's not completely there yet. Then again, considering that he's in love with Gaerîn of all people... •trails off• Yup, insane. •g• Okay, as I said in the A/N, the next chapter should be here in about 8 or 9 days, if I'm still alive then, of course. I know that there hasn't been much action in this story till now, but this is going to change since there'll be a cliffy next chapter! Yay! •evil grin• Oh, come on, you KNOW you like them! •g• And, as always, reviews help and are greatly appreciated. This time they'll really make a difference, so: Review? Please?  
  
  
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**Additional A/N:  
  
I am once again sorry for not replying to your wonderful, funny, amazing (•insert a number of positive adjectives here•) reviews, but it really takes a lot more time than I can spare at the moment. It would be far more fun than rehearsing and descending into new levels of panic and nervousness, but what can one do? •g• Not much, I'm afraid, so I hope you're not too cross and will forgive me! •apologetic smile• Sorry again!**


	5. Rocks And Hard Places

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:  
  
•is being pushed into the update by several evilly grinning elves and an equally evilly grinning ranger• Uhm, well... Hi, people! Long time no see, huh? •runs off to escape irate readers' wrath• That was most certainly the wrong thing to say... •g•  
  
I'm really, really sorry for not updating sooner. It wasn't really the exam (which went very well, thanks a lot for your well wishes! •huggles•) but rather the stupid college bureaucracy. I swear to God that it was a miracle that I didn't kill one of those morons who were all but telling me that I had all the forms but was still missing a photograph of my dog. Okay, they didn't say THAT, but they would have if I would have given them a bit more time. So, once again, sorry for keeping you waiting. But then again, what's half a week among friends? •ducks quickly• Quite a bit, I take it...  
  
  
Alright, so here is chapter 5, only two weeks after the last one. •sheepish smile• We have a little conversation between Glorfindel and Erestor which I dedicate to Tineryn-who-was-once-called-Gwyn-if-I'm-not-very-much-mistaken since I know how much she likes the two of them. Yes, that's her actual name. •ironic grin• Other than that, we see a little bit more of the female villain's seneschal (and also learn her name) and Aragorn & Co. do something incredibly ... stupid. •g• Oh yes, and there is that thing all of you have been missing. Yes, indeed: The much-loved cliffy, which I wrote ONLY for CrazyLOTRfan. Yay! •g•  
  
Enjoy and review, please!  
  
  
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Chapter 5  
  
  
It was all about one thing: Patience.  
  
Exercising it was something he had learnt in the millennia he had already lived, and he had learnt it well. But even though he understood perfectly well that patience had its uses, truthfully even its many uses, it didn't make it any easier for him to sit still and do nothing.   
  
The fair haired being sat back slightly, leaning against the tree trunk at his back. This spot was perfect, he congratulated himself silently. The tree he was sitting in was almost invisible due to the deep shadows the building next to it cast onto the ground, and if he remained motionless, nobody would see him. He knew that his prey would come here, sooner or later, and when it did, it would have to walk right past the tree, for there was no other way to reach the building. And go to the building it would.   
  
Perfect indeed, he nodded inwardly and grinned slightly. The one he was waiting for would never see it coming, he was sure about it. He would be suspicious, surely, but he was counting on the fact that he would most likely feel secure so close to his goal. Most creatures became careless when they had almost reached their destination, that was something he had learned a long time ago.  
  
Today he didn't have to wait too long, either. Twice the crisp silence that was so characteristic for early, cold mornings was disturbed by the sound of soft footsteps, but when the ones who had caused them had come into the blond being's range of vision, he quickly saw that they weren't the person he was waiting for. Ten minutes after the second person had passed the tree he was sitting in and had entered the large building next to it another being's footsteps could be heard, nearing his position unerringly and without hurry.   
  
He leaned forward slightly, the expectant grin once again appearing on his face. A few moments later a dark head appeared between the bushes and trees, verifying what he had already knew: His prey had just arrived. He waited for the dark haired being to come closer, the grin on his face widening even more. He lived for moments such as this one.  
  
Only ten more paces separated him from his prey now, and he was slowly beginning to edge forward, closer to the edge of the branch. He would give the other a few more seconds so he could pass the tree, and then he would…   
  
The fair haired being's thoughts were rudely interrupted when the dark haired being suddenly raised his head, shifted the packs on his shoulder and looked straight at him, a friendly, bright smile on his face.   
"Good morning, Glorfindel."  
  
For several long moments the golden haired elf didn't even move an inch while his jaw slowly threatened to drop onto his chest. A few seconds later a look of such disappointment and indignation spread on his face that the dark haired elf had to work hard to suppress a merry – and somewhat gleeful – laugh.  
  
"You … you…" the blond elf spluttered, apparently too shocked to form a coherent sentence. "How …. why…?"  
  
"Come now, my lord," the dark haired elf shook his head – rather smugly, one might add. It didn't happen often that one could see the famous Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin in such a flustered, confused state, and he intended to savour every second of it. "Surely you did not expect me to think that you wouldn't try to … see me off in your usual, unique manner?"  
  
Glorfindel didn't reply immediately but rather made an effort to regain control over his facial features, something that took him quite some time. After several moments he had managed to hide most of his emotions, even though the indignant sparkle in his eyes did not diminish.  
"I demand to know how you knew that I would be here, Erestor."   
  
"You demand to know?" Erestor arched a dark eyebrow. "You should know that I do not react well to demands, my friend."  
  
"Fine," Glorfindel snapped, dropping to the ground without a sound. "Then I ask you politely, if you so wish! How did you know that I would be … seeing you off?"  
  
"You always are," Erestor simply replied. "You are getting predictable in your old age, Glorfindel. Take care, or the young ones will have outwitted you by the decade's end!"  
  
Glorfindel merely glared darkly at the infuriatingly unaffected elf next to him.  
"It is you who should take care, my lord. Since I am so predictable, you should know that I will not rest before I have … seen you off."   
  
"Ah, but for once time itself shall be your opponent!" Erestor smiled openly, something he didn't do all that often. "Unless you manage to scare me half to death while I am loading my horse, I fear you will have to wait until my return."  
  
"A worthy challenge!" the golden haired elf exclaimed, some of the outrage and indignation fading from his eyes in face of the familiar, light-hearted conversation. "I would never have thought that you of all people would come up with such an excellent idea, my Lord Erestor."  
  
"I, unlike some other people I could name, am _not _predictable," Erestor all but smirked as he side-stepped the taller elf and once again began to walk over to the stables.  
  
"Oh, you aren't?" Glorfindel repeated incredulously, apparently keen on regaining at least some of the ground he'd already lost to the dark haired advisor during this conversation. "No, of course you are not. It is of course not you who eats the same thing for breakfast every day, or who has to read the last page of a book before the first, or who arranges the things on his desk in the exact same manner every morning, or…"  
  
"Enough!" the other elf lord shook his head, trying not to let his embarrassment show. "And I do not eat the same thing for breakfast every day!"  
  
"Oh no, you do not, forgive me," the blond elf grinned. "There was that one time about five and a half _yéni _ago that you ate cold meat instead of fruit. How careless of me to forget."  
  
Now it was Erestor's turn to glare at his companion, and he began to fasten the bags he'd brought on his mare's back with quite a bit more force than necessary. The horse shook its head unwillingly and danced on the spot, and Glorfindel reached out and grasped its bridle to soothe the agitated animal. For a moment, he contemplated scolding Erestor for scaring the animal like this, but then he decided against it. He had pushed the other far enough already today, and even though he knew that he was stronger and the more experienced warrior he really didn't want to explain to Elrond why Erestor had tried to kill him.  
  
"How long will you be gone, my lord?" he finally asked, stroking the still indignant animal's nose. "Not much longer than a month, surely?"  
  
Erestor unwillingly turned his head to look at him, and once again Glorfindel wished that it was easier to read the dark haired elf. He never knew with absolute certainty if Erestor was truly annoyed and angry or merely pretended to be, something that vexed him far more than he was willing to admit. Right now, however, it seemed that Erestor wasn't really angry, for he actually opened his mouth to answer him instead of staring coldly at him.   
  
"I do not know," the dark haired advisor admitted while he made sure that the bags were securely fastened on his horse's back. He wrinkled his brow in displeasure, either because he had found that one of the knots had come loose or because he had to admit that he didn't know something important. "It all depends on how reasonable the leaders of the two towns will be." He quirked a dark eyebrow. "So it might take a while."  
  
"What exactly is the problem anyway?" Glorfindel asked, somewhat puzzled. "I do not even know what happened to lead the humans to this point."   
  
"If you attended the council meetings a little more frequently instead on running around getting yourself into trouble in a way that is most unbecoming an elf lord, you would know what I am talking about," Erestor retorted, sounding remarkably like a father scolding a wayward child.  
  
"Ah, but if I did that, I might end up like you," Glorfindel grinned. "There are more important things than reports, books and scrolls, my lord."  
  
"Of course there are," Erestor nodded deadpan. "Ink and quill."  
  
The golden haired elf shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and amusement on his face.  
"Ink and quill." He shook his head again. "I should have known." Erestor didn't say anything or gave any indication of wanting to say anything, and so Glorfindel inclined his head minutely. "Alright. You are correct, my lord, and it is only due to my own … exuberance that I do not know all the details. Please, enlighten me."  
  
Erestor wasn't very impressed by the other's somewhat forced politeness, but he still nodded after a few seconds, a somewhat smug smile on his face.  
"We don't know much, which is essentially the problem," the dark haired elf admitted with a small shrug. "The human town we are trading with, the one next to the Mitheithel, appears to have some sort of altercation with a neighbouring town. There don't appear to have been any deaths yet, but that is only a matter of time."  
  
"Which town? The one located at the confluence of the Bruinen and the Hoarwell?" the other elf frowned slightly. "What was the name again, Abalron?"  
  
"Aberon," Erestor corrected the blond elf while he attempted to secure a roughly rectangular bag next to his sleeping roll. "There is another town close by, and there seem to have been some serious problems concerning trade routes or something of the like. I don't think that Lord Elrond wants to risk getting involved in serious hostilities, which is why we will try to negotiate first."  
  
Glorfindel nodded slowly. This assignment wasn't really that unusual now that he thought about it. To him it seemed as if one half of Middle-earth's human population was always trying to kill the other half, and so it didn't surprise him in the slightest that two towns had got involved in a trading dispute. Most people, and not only Men, tended to get into fights with their peers about the most ridiculous things, that was one constant of life that would probably never change.  
  
"I see," he nodded and managed to grasp a bag Erestor was trying to secure, just in time to prevent it from sliding down the horse's side. "What are you keeping in here?" he asked amusedly, surprised by the bag's weight. "Don't tell me," he added a moment later with a smirk, "Books. What else."  
  
"Yes, books," the dark haired elf retorted with a long-suffering sigh and snatched the bag before Glorfindel could open it. "I am surprised that you even know what they look like."  
  
"Oh, I do know what books are, my lord," Glorfindel retorted and helpfully pushed one of the attached bags to the side so that the other elf could secure this last bag again, something that Erestor only commented with something closely resembling a scowl. "I _can _read, you know."   
  
"You could have fooled me, my Lord Glorfindel."  
  
The golden haired elf pretended not to have heard the other's words and stepped to the side to allow Erestor to lead his horse out of the stables and into the courtyard.  
"How many guards are you taking with you?" he asked when they were just crossing the threshold. "All of Captain Elvynd's men, I presume?"   
  
Erestor shook his head, realising with a small pang of dread that Glorfindel had apparently not been informed that he was only taking six guards with him. This might get ugly, he thought darkly.  
"No, I am not. The captain and five of his men will suffice."   
  
Glorfindel stopped in his tracks, and since he was still grasping the horse's bridle, the beast was pulled to a stop as well, something that didn't seem to amuse it at all. For the second time in an hour the golden haired elf stared with wide, unbelieving eyes at Erestor, who decided that this was really beginning to get old.  
"What?" the elf lord finally asked, all courtesy forgotten. "You are taking only _six _guards with you? Are you serious? Do you wish to get yourself killed? Are you _serious_?"  
  
Erestor sighed, briefly closing his eyes.  
"Yes. I am perfectly serious."  
  
"No, you are not! You are mad!" Glorfindel exclaimed, surprise being replaced by indignation. "Erestor, there is no telling how these people might react! And even if they are perfectly peaceful, it doesn't mean that your journey will be anything of the like! It is spring, for Eru's sake! The orcs and goblins are just coming out of their holes, and getting their hands on an elven travelling party would be their idea of a _Yestarë _present!"  
  
Erestor raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised by the vehemence of the other's reaction.  
"Has our lord put you up to this?" he asked suspiciously. "I will tell you what I told him: This is not debatable. If we want this mission to succeed, we cannot go there with an army. Six men, Glorfindel. No more."   
  
"No, Elrond hasn't put me up to anything!" Glorfindel shook his head, his eyes narrowed in anger or annoyance. "But it doesn't surprise me that he has talked to you about this! Are you _trying _to get yourself killed in a most gruesome manner or is it just a side-effect of your overconfidence?"   
  
Erestor narrowed his eyes as well, not really knowing whether he should be touched or insulted by the fact that everyone thought him incapable of taking care of himself.  
"Concern, my Lord Glorfindel? From you? I am honoured – surprised, but honoured!"  
  
If it was somehow possible, the expression on Glorfindel's face became even darker and more threatening.  
"Stop this, Erestor," he demanded curtly. "You are my friend; you know that I am concerned about you."  
  
"And you are mine," the other elf nodded. "But you are not my mother. I do not tell you how to fulfil your duties, so please do not insult me by trying to tell me how I should fulfil mine."  
  
For a few moments, the blond elf merely stared at him, his eyes narrowed so far that it was hard to tell whether they were still open or not. In the end he released a long sigh and shook his head, the indignation on his face slowly fading.  
"My concern is an insult to you then?" he asked softly. "I had thought friends were concerned about one another, even the ones who would like to kill each other on most days."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," Erestor shook his head. "You know it is not so. But I have to do what I think right, just like you do what you must. I have spoken with Elrond about this, and he has agreed that it is the right course of action."  
  
"Why do I have the feeling that these weren't his exact words?" the other asked darkly.  
  
"I have no idea," Erestor retorted emotionlessly. "I think it might be because you are an exceedingly distrustful and suspicious person."   
  
"What is it they say? It takes one to know one?"  
  
Erestor merely shrugged and once again began to lead his horse to the middle of the courtyard where the rest of his party was waiting, but a hand on his arm made him halt in his tracks. He stopped with an inward sigh, once again coming to the conclusion that one of Glorfindel's ancestors must have been an exceedingly stubborn mule. He was about to say something light-hearted, but elected to stay silent when he saw the for Glorfindel rather exceptional, worried and dead serious sparkle in his friend's eyes.  
  
"Promise me to be careful," the golden haired elf said in a soft voice. "Listen to Elvynd; he is one of my best captains. He knows what he is talking about, and when he tells you to turn your horse around and ride as fast as you can, then do it, in Manwë's name."  
  
"I am no novice or elfling, Glorfindel," Erestor shook his head seriously. "I know perfectly well how to look after myself."  
  
"I know that, Erestor!" the other elf lord exclaimed, once again astounded at his friend's thick-headedness. "Of course I know that, but you are a scholar, not a warrior. Elvynd has been in these parts a lot of times, and knows the humans there better than you and I. If he tells you that there is danger looming, then please listen to him."  
  
The dark haired advisor looked at the serious face of the golden haired elf and realised that he was perfectly serious. It was highly unlike Glorfindel to get worried like this – or at least to express the worry so openly – and if he were prone to superstition, he would believe that there was something wrong with this mission. He was, however, not a superstitious elf, and so he merely nodded his head after a few moments, deciding to humour his blond friend.  
  
"As you wish," he replied with a small smile. "I will do as you ask, if you promise me something in return."  
  
"And what would that be?" Glorfindel asked, a suspicious look in his eyes. It never paid to underestimate Erestor, and doubly so when he smiled at you.  
  
"That you go and talk with Elrond," the other elf said without batting an eyelid. "He hasn't ripped off your head yet and won't do so now, so stop avoiding him."  
  
"Who says I am avoiding him?" the elf lord asked innocently. "I have merely been busy."  
  
"Please," Erestor smiled even more broadly. "Of course you have been avoiding him. Even a cretin with only one eye would have been able to see it." Glorfindel didn't say anything, and so the dark haired elf added, "I know how hard this is for you, but please be reasonable for once, Glorfindel. I know that you are not comfortable talking about what happened in Rhûn, which is only understandable, but if you continue to remain silent and keep your distance, Elrond will think something is seriously wrong. He has more than enough worries already."  
  
"'Not comfortable'?" the golden haired elf repeated incredulously. "'Not comfortable' doesn't even begin to describe it! How am I to explain to him that I allowed his sons and their friends to get themselves into such a situation? How am I to explain that I did not see the danger, that I did nothing while they were tortured and almost killed? How am I to explain such a failure?"  
  
"Who says that you will have to explain anything?" Erestor retorted softly. "Elrond Peredhil is one of the Wise, my friend. He wishes to ensure that you are alright; he will not demand any explanations from you or will blame you for anything. You know that."  
  
"Maybe," Glorfindel nodded slowly. "Yes, maybe I do know that. And maybe I think that I do not deserve such forgiveness and generosity."   
  
Erestor shook his head.  
  
"For an elf of more than 6500 years of age you can be amazingly stupid," he told him in his usual direct manner. "Everyone in Imladris knows that you would willingly die for Elrond and any of his children. If there is one person who deserves such 'generosity', as you call it, it is you." Glorfindel opened his mouth, most likely to protest, but Erestor cut him off before he had even uttered a single word. "No, Glorfindel. We have had this conversation before, and I will not quarrel with you about this again. I have neither the time nor the patience for it. All I want is your word that you will seek him out and talk to him. Nothing more."  
  
"You are meddlesome, has anybody ever told you that?" Glorfindel asked darkly.  
  
"Yes. Your word, Glorfindel."  
  
"Fine!" Glorfindel exclaimed, looking very much as if he wanted to raise his hands in exasperation. "You have my word. If you promise me to look after yourself."  
  
"I promise," Erestor inclined his head minutely. "I will be fine, believe me."  
  
He turned back towards the middle of the courtyard where Elvynd and his five warriors were already waiting. Another elf was standing next to him, with one of his arms in a white sling and a rather large bruise on his forehead. It was Isál, Erestor realised with a small stab of surprise, another of Glorfindel's captains, and he looked as if he had just fallen out of a tree.   
  
Next to him, the golden haired elf narrowed his eyes in mild suspicion, but then he nodded.  
"I hope so. The mere idea of all the paperwork that would land on my desk if you died is enough to send shivers down my back."  
  
"Your concern is touching, my lord," Erestor commented wryly while they were walking into the direction of the small group. "I will do my best not to inconvenience you thus."  
  
"I seriously hope so," Glorfindel nodded, but his light tone of voice was belied by the serious look in his eyes. "I seriously hope so, my Lord Erestor."  
  
The dark haired advisor merely nodded as well, and so the two of them made their way over to the other seven elves in silence. Erestor's promise set his mind at ease a little, Glorfindel thought while he followed his friend over to the middle of the courtyard. Only a little, though, and not nearly enough to suppress the gnawing unease that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He didn't really know what was bothering him about this mission, but it was only a vague feeling, unfortunately nothing more substantial. Erestor, however, didn't trust half-baked feeling and vague notions, that was something he had learned quite a long time ago.  
  
So he remained silent and hoped that nothing would happen and that he had simply been mistaken. It had been known to happen, after all.

  
  
For the first time in more years than he could remember, Salir was tempted to start pacing. No, that wasn't really correct, the grey haired, elderly man corrected himself almost instantly. He was seriously, gravely, thoroughly tempted to start pacing, no matter how ill-befitting it would be for a person of his age, status and education.  
  
Impatient people paced. People who were not keen on their pride or prestige paced. Ignorant, ill-bred and illiterate people paced; people like soldiers and peasants and servants. He was the Lady Acalith's seneschal, the person she trusted most next to her war council, and he would _not _pace, no matter how tempted he might be. Not even if he was being stared at by one of the most loathsome and menacing men he had ever seen.  
  
Salir forced himself to remain calm and to continue with his work. He turned back to the report lying in front of him, reading it carefully and diligently. He would not give the man sitting to the right of his desk any sign of his unease, at least not if he could help it. If he judged him correctly – and he was rather certain that he did – the man in question was like one of the vicious, wild dogs that were eternally haunting the town's outskirts, snapping at each other for scraps of garbage or whatever food they could find. If you showed any signs of weakness or fear in front of these beasts, you were as good as dead.  
  
The grey haired man did his best to ignore the way the other man shifted impatiently in the uncomfortable chair he was sitting on, but after some more moments he finally turned his head minutely to the side and gave the other a furtive look. The dark haired man didn't seem to realise he was being observed, which didn't surprise Salir in the slightest. He was a master at observing people without them noticing (something that was a vital condition for a long and relatively healthy life in this household), and besides, the object of his studies was not the most observant person ever to grace this world. Of course he was not, Salir thought scornfully. He was just a brute, a savage, nothing more.  
  
He was, however, a useful brute, Salir admitted to himself. He had joined his lady's service less than half a year ago, and had managed to rise to the rank of a captain in this relative short amount of time. It had only been possible because they were a small town, with a comparably small military force, but it was still no small feat. A person who had risen so quickly through the ranks needed three qualities, at least here: Ruthlessness, efficiency and an instinctive knowledge when to say what.  
  
Salir frowned to himself, apparently still deeply immersed in the parchment in front of him. He wasn't too sure about the second or third, but very, very sure about the first. Captain Gasur was certainly the most ruthless man he had ever laid eyes on, and considering the type of men who were making up a large part of their forces, that meant quite a lot, too.  
  
He didn't really look all that intimidating, at least not in an obvious way. He wasn't tall, at least not taller than many men living in this town. He had dark, straight hair which he usually wore unbound (something of which Salir deeply disapproved), and nothing about his face appeared exceedingly unusual – except for his eyes. They were light brown and still so hauntingly dark that it always took Salir by surprise. He had never before seen a man with such disconcerting, unsettling eyes, and more than once the grey haired seneschal had wondered if the small flicker that was visible in Captain Gasur's brown orbs from time to time was a sign of a kind of inner rage – or maybe madness.  
  
He gave the man in question another quick look. The sparkle he had been thinking about was not visible at the moment, but now that he thought about it, he was almost certain that it was lurking somewhere in the background, like a beast lying dormant in the winter. It was an upsetting comparison, a comparison that only served to accentuate the unease he felt when he was in the captain's company.  
  
Salir couldn't even explain to himself why he felt this way – he had never had any problems dealing with soldiers before, and even though Captain Gasur might be more ruthless and brutal than most, he was by no means the first man of such a type he had known. He had met many men who wouldn't have hesitated to cut his throat for a coin or two or merely for sport, but still the dark haired man made him … uneasy. Anxious. _Nervous_.  
  
Salir did not like being nervous. In his eyes, only his lady had the right to make him feel nervous, no one else. Certainly not this ill-mannered, ill-bred man lounging in _his_ chair.  
  
"How much longer do I have to wait here?"  
  
Captain Gasur's cold voice interrupted the seneschal's thoughts. The grey haired man didn't react for a few moments, taking his time to finish reading the last few sentences of the report. He wasn't completely comfortable playing such games with a man as dangerous as Gasur, but he still had a point to make. It was worse enough that he had to endure the captain's company in his office, he would not allow him to dictate when he did what.   
  
He finally raised his head to look at the dark haired man, smiling inwardly when he saw the dark, annoyed expression on the other's face.   
"Until our lady sees it fit to see you," he informed Gasur in what he hoped was an impersonal, calm tone of voice.  
  
The dark haired captain obviously had to fight for composure before he could answer.  
"And when will she see it fit to see me, _sir_?"   
  
Salir bristled at the other man's tone of voice that was very close to being insubordinate. No matter how respectfully Gasur spoke to him, it was always clear that he loathed him and considered him a nuisance that was to be endured, if even that much.  
"When her current meeting has come to an end, Captain. Are you in any particular hurry?"  
  
Gasur looked at him emotionlessly before he dropped his gaze, studying the leather bracers that encircled his wrists. It was a gesture of such calculated impudence that it raised Salir's ire even more.  
  
"No, not really," the man answered lazily, playing with the dark brown armguards. "I think the last little incident hasn't failed to make the desired impression. They're holding council meeting after council meeting, just like a cluster of headless birds."  
  
Salir narrowed his eyes at the younger man. This was yet another thing he didn't like about Gasur: He liked to brag. If any other man would have shown such a gleeful reaction, he might even have understood him or even sympathised with him, but to see it on Gasur's face was nothing that made him feel even remotely sympathetic.  
  
"Yes, that … incident," the older man finally said as he carefully put down the quill he was holding. "Does the word 'overkill' mean anything to you, Captain?"  
  
Gasur's eyes narrowed as well as he stared at the smaller, older and decidedly less well armed man. He was either very sure of himself or very courageous. Somehow he doubted the latter.  
"I do not have to explain my actions – which were in accordance with our lady's orders, I might add – to anyone but her ladyship. Least of all to you."  
  
"Careful, Captain," Salir retorted icily. "You forget to whom you are talking, it appears. Like it or not, I am your superior."  
  
"No, you are not," Gasur shook his head with a smile that would have sent even the most even-tempered elf into a fit of fury. "The only person I answer to is our lady whom I serve faithfully. You are her seneschal, not a general or a captain. I receive my orders from her, not from you or anyone else."  
  
Salir suppressed the scowl that wanted to spread over his face. He wasn't prone to displaying his thoughts to people he considered his adversaries, and the last person to whom he would have wanted to show any of his emotions was Captain Gasur. The fact that the other man was right made the entire thing only worse.  
  
"Maybe," he finally nodded silkily in a manner that would have made the shrewdest councilman proud. He might be subservient in his lady's presence, but that didn't mean that he was unable to stand up to those who thought it might be easy to usurp his position.  
  
"Yes, maybe you are right, Captain. But you forget that I have been here for a long, long time. I have known our lady ever since she married our lord, and have served her faithfully from that day on. You, on the other hand, have been here for not even six months, a fact to which I accredit your rather rash comments. Do you honestly think I would be here, in this position, after so many years, if I was weak or stupid?"  
  
"I do not want your position, Seneschal," the other man shook his head scornfully. "I am a soldier, not a scribe or a scholar."  
  
"No, you are most certainly not," Salir agreed with a raised eyebrow. "I know you not to be a fool, Captain, and I therefore give you this piece of advice: Do not overestimate your importance. You have risen high and fast, and such things tend to cloud most men's minds. Our lady trusts me, and has for years. I have more influence than most people here, and most certainly more than you. If you are not careful, you will fall as quickly as you have risen."  
  
Gasur surprised the seneschal by not saying anything, even though Salir was by no means certain whether this was a good thing or not. The dark haired captain merely stared at him unblinkingly, his brown eyes fixed unerringly on his face, and Salir slowly began to realise that Gasur might not be quite as unwise or uncultivated as he had thought, an idea that did little to put his mind at ease.  
  
"Since this matter is settled," the grey haired man went on as if nothing had been said between the two of them, "let us return to the matter we were discussing earlier: Your … questionable actions from six days ago. If your men hadn't stirred up the townspeople, they wouldn't have gone so far as to set fire to the warehouses before the guards had the chance to get out."  
  
"It's not my fault, nor that of my men, if they were too slow to leave," Gasur shrugged, unaffected.  
  
"I heard other things," Salir said sharply, peering at the soldier over the papers that were piled on his desktop. "There are those who say that your men barred the doors and windows to prevent them from escaping."   
  
"Are there now?" the dark haired captain asked, appearing amused more than anything else.  
  
"Yes, there are," Salir nodded friendly, but his eyes narrowed minutely. "Why would anyone say such a thing if it is not true, I wonder?"  
  
"I couldn't say," Gasur said, apparently not very concerned by the other's words. "It also would depend on who is saying such things, sir. It would be of certain … interest to me."  
  
"Yes, I am sure it would be," Salir smiled mirthlessly. "And if I told you, these people would disappear to find themselves in to-be-burnt buildings, correct?"  
  
"I wouldn't know about that," the captain smiled his most innocent smile. If there had ever been a man who looked like the proverbial cat who had eaten the equally proverbial bird, it was Gasur.  
  
"No, of course you wouldn't," the grey haired man retorted calmly. If Gasur wanted to play such games with him, he was most welcome to try. They would see soon enough who would trip over his own feet first, wouldn't they? "I expect a full, written report by no later than tomorrow morning, Captain. It is overdue by more than two days now."  
  
"Oh?" Gasur smiled even more broadly, the expression in his eyes belying his following words. "I hadn't noticed; if I had, I would have made sure you received it on time, sir."  
  
Salir didn't even bother to retort anything. He would not mince words with a man such as Captain Gasur. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them that was interrupted by the sounds of footsteps that were swiftly drawing closer. Before the seneschal had even lifted his eyes from the piece of parchment lying in front of him, the dark haired captain had turned around in his chair, his right hand automatically reaching for his sword hilt. Gasur might be many things, Salir thought to himself darkly, but he was a good soldier. Not even he could challenge that, and the Gods knew that he dearly wanted to.  
  
A few seconds later the footsteps stopped and a knock sounded on the closed door. After a short word of invitation the door was opened, and a young servant boy stuck his head into the room, a mixture of pride and fear on his face. It was clear that he was immensely proud to have been assigned to carry a message to the seneschal of his lady himself, but also afraid to fail in such an important mission.  
  
"Begging your pardon, sirs," he finally said after he had plucked up enough courage. "But the Lady Acalith is ready to see Captain Gasur now."  
  
It was hard to say who was more relieved by the news, Salir or Gasur. Neither of them showed any of their emotions openly, but even the young boy standing in the doorway noticed that both of them seemed more than happy to get rid of each other. He didn't care overly much, though. The first thing everyone learned here was not to ask any unnecessary questions and not to think about things that didn't concern you.  
  
"Run ahead, lad," the dark haired captain nodded at the servant boy, his gruff voice only serving to heighten the child's anxiety. "I'll join you in a minute."  
  
The boy nodded and disappeared without a second's hesitation. That was another thing you learnt quickly when you worked here: It was never wise to hesitate to obey a captain's orders, and most certainly not this particular captain's. Captain Gasur had a nasty temper, that was something the whole town knew.  
  
Gasur waited until the boy had passed out of hearing range, but then he turned back to the ornately carved wooden desk and gave the grey haired seneschal a curt bow.  
"I thank you for your words, Seneschal. I will not forget them."  
  
"See that you don't, Captain," Salir retorted curtly, about to return his attention to the papers in front of him. "Rising as high as you have is a commendable feat, but what is it they say? What goes up must come down."   
  
"You misunderstand me, sir," the captain said in a completely emotionless tone of voice. "You were right, of course. You have more influence than I have, by a long way. You have been here for a dozen years, while I have been here for a mere half-year. Of course our lady trusts and believes you far more than she trusts and believes me."  
  
The younger man leaned forward, a smile on his face that chilled Salir's blood.  
"But this will not always be so. Things change, Seneschal, even things like these. One of these days, I will have risen in our lady's favour and my power and influence will exceed yours. And when that day comes, I shall remember our conversation."  
  
Gasur's smile widened even more, an even more disconcerting sight.  
"After all, as you so aptly put it: What goes up must come down." He gave the older man another short bow. "I bid you a good day, Seneschal."  
  
Before Salir could think of anything he could retort to this, the dark haired captain had turned around and left his office. The only thing that could be heard after a few seconds was the sound of receding footsteps, and even that was soon lost in the corridors outside the room.  
  
It was a long time before Salir could wrench his eyes away from the empty doorway and gather enough calmness of mind to return to his work.

  
  
Aragorn sighed, not for the first time today. It also wouldn't be the last time today, at least that was what he was beginning to suspect. Most people only talked about the better-known qualities and character traits of the elven race, such as the Firstborn's grace, beauty and wisdom, but the stubbornness and sheer mulishness of the Elves was sadly underrated.   
  
"This is not debatable. I was merely informing you of my decision, not asking for your permission or anything of the like," he said in a firm, determined tone of voice.  
  
Unfortunately for him, he was speaking to beings whose definition of a firm and determined tone of voice was somewhat different from most other beings'.  
  
"Is that so?" the younger of his two brothers asked with a raised eyebrow that made him look remarkably like their father. "The mighty Lord Aragorn decides upon a course of action and neither reason nor objections of any kind will change his mind, is that it?"  
  
The young man frowned as if in deep thought.  
"That is a rather melodramatic description, but … yes. You could say that."  
  
Next to Elrohir, Elladan snorted, either in disbelief or amusement.  
"'You could say that'," he mimicked his younger brother. "Well, then let me tell you another thing, dear brother: You are not going. And that is final."  
  
Aragorn looked at his older brother with large eyes before he redirected his gaze to the fair haired wood-elf who was sitting on his windowsill and was doing his best not to laugh. He shot the elf a dark look and returned his attention to a very stony-faced Elladan.  
  
"And who or what exactly gives you the right to make that decision, Elladan?" he asked, not really knowing whether he should feel indignant or amused. "I am no longer a child, nor am I your servant or a warrior under your command. You have no right to tell me what to do."  
  
"Oh, I haven't?" the dark haired elf retorted heatedly. "I am your brother, your older brother! Do I not have the right to be worried about you?"  
  
The man's eyes darkened in a way that was very familiar to the three elves in the room, and before Aragorn could voice some of the things that were going through his mind at the moment, Elrohir took a quick step forward and shook his head. The man's dark expression did not diminish while Elladan merely glared at his twin, and not for the first time Elrohir inwardly shook his head at their stubbornness. Sometimes even he wondered how it came that Estel was so much like them.  
  
"We are not trying to order you what to do, Estel," he said quickly before either of his brothers could say something they would regret later. "We are merely…"  
  
"…trying to keep you from getting yourself and that dim-witted wood-elf killed, that is what we are trying to do," Elladan finished his brother's sentence. There was no steam coming out of his ears, but Elrohir suspected it would be only a matter of time. "You are…"  
  
"Don't say it," Aragorn advised his brother before he could finish the sentence. "_Don't _say that I am 'not fully well yet', Elladan, or, by Varda's Domes, I will do something that will seriously hurt you. We have been back for more than a week now! I am fine!"  
  
"That is something that is still open to debate," Elladan retorted darkly. "But no, I was not going to say that you were not fully well yet. I was going to say that, your thick skull notwithstanding, you are not a chamois! You will fall and break all the bones in your body!"  
  
"Why does everyone automatically assume that I am incapable of going anywhere without 'falling and breaking all the bones in my body'?"   
  
"They know you, Estel," Legolas opened his mouth for the first time, a smile clearly audible in his voice. "Theirs is the voice of experience."  
  
"Go on like this, _mellon nín_," Aragorn smiled brightly at the elven prince. "If you want to find out how it feels like to 'fall and break all the bones in your body', just keep talking."  
  
"Stay out of this, Legolas," Elladan told the slightly younger elf as well. "I don't know yet how, but I am sure this is all your fault."  
  
"My fault?" the blond elf asked incredulously. "My fault? How could any of this be possibly _my _fault? I hadn't even heard of that ridge before Aragorn mentioned it!"  
  
"But you gave him the idea to climb it!" Now Elrohir, too, was glaring at the fair haired prince.  
  
"I most certainly did not!" Legolas shook his head, even though his protest sounded rather half-hearted. "I merely voiced my opinion that the view on Rivendell would be beautiful from there."  
  
"There you have it!" Elladan shot the wood-elf a dark look. "What were you thinking?"  
  
"He did not encourage me to do anything!" Aragorn had finally managed to control his indignation enough to formulate simple sentences. "I asked him if he wanted to accompany me, not the other way round. And we are leaving. Now."  
  
"Not without us," Elrohir shook his head firmly while he and his twin got to their feet. "We have been climbing that ridge for longer than either of you has lived – yes, even you, _young prince_," he added with a smug look into the indignant wood-elf's direction. "Besides, someone has to drag you back here to _ada _when the inevitable finally happens. We are coming with you."  
  
Aragorn looked from one serious face to the other, and when he could see nothing but firm determination in his brothers' eyes, he relented with a sigh.  
"Alright. But if you flutter around us like overgrown mother hens, I will push the two of you into a crevice or a fissure or something like that," Aragorn threatened darkly. "I swear I will."  
  
"Like that time you nearly drowned us in the Bruinen, _muindor dithen_?" Elladan asked teasingly, his mood apparently much improved now that the man had consented to taking them with him. "That was an exceedingly malevolent thing to do for a nine-year-old."  
  
Legolas, who had just collected his cloak and pair of daggers he had earlier deposited on one of the small tables in front of windows, turned back to the three brothers standing in front of Aragorn's bed and raised an eyebrow in amusement.  
"You did what?"  
  
"He exaggerates," Aragorn shrugged, but a faint, pink tinge began to creep up the man's cheek. "I pushed them into the river, that was all. An adult elf who can't fend off a human child deserves nothing better if you ask me."  
  
"It was spring!" Elrohir shook his head in fake reproval, his eyes widening melodramatically. "The Bruinen was at its highest watermark in years! We could have _died_!"  
  
"You shouldn't have teased me," the dark haired ranger grinned at the two elves in front of him. "You got what you deserved, my dear brothers."  
  
Before one of them could say anything, the man had grabbed his cloak from the bed, taken Legolas by the sleeve and dragged the half-surprised and half-amused elf out of the room. The twins exchanged a look full of mock outrage before they followed the two younger beings out of the room, both of them mumbling dark threats under their breath. Aragorn, however, didn't pay them much attention. They would stop eventually. They always did.   
  
An hour later, however, the young ranger realised how wrong that assessment had been. They hadn't stopped. Not for longer than half a minute, to be perfectly precise, and, by the Valar, he had counted. He didn't really know if they were doing it on purpose or not – no, of course he knew. They _were _doing it on purpose, just to annoy him.  
  
After listening to Elladan's fifty-third threat involving him and near-injury and death – as he had said, he _had _counted – he finally lost his patience. He gave the steep, barely visible path in front of him a quick look, carefully placed his feet on a large, apparently solid rock and a bit of tree root and turned back to his far too innocent-looking elven brother.  
"You can't do that to a human body, you know."  
  
Elladan looked back at the man, apparently greatly surprised. He was standing on an impossibly narrow ledge to the right of the path, a ledge that should rightly have crumbled under the weight of anything heavier than a butterfly.   
"You can't do what to a human body, dear brother?"  
  
"Fold it, knot together the arms and legs, put it into a saddlebag and sent it to Mordor as a little present to Sauron. It's just not possible."  
  
"Are you so sure about that?" Elrohir asked with a frown, something on his face that almost looked like scientific interest. "It might be possible. We would need to try it out on someone."  
  
"Find yourself someone else," Aragorn snorted, glad that his brother had at least stopped mumbling. "May I suggest Gandalf? I would love to see the look on his face when you try to do something like this to him."   
  
"Gandalf is no man, Aragorn," Legolas informed his human friend while he was studying the "path" they were following – or at least Aragorn and the twin called it a path. He wouldn't have chosen that particular term.  
  
"Well, he looks like one," the ranger brushed the elf's words aside, careful not to gesture too much, for even the slightest movement sent pebbles and small stones rolling down the path.  
  
He was beginning to understand why his brothers had been opposed to this – for a human the ridge was virtually impossible to climb. It was something he would never admit, of course, but that didn't change anything. He hadn't tried to climb up this path ever since that one time when he had been sixteen, which wasn't really something he wanted to remember. He hadn't got farther than fifty yards before he had fallen and cracked his left wrist, something he had been able to avoid until now. It was anyone's guess, however, how long that would last.  
  
"_Ada _ would never let us do that," Elladan shook his head as if seriously contemplating this possibility. "You know how much he likes Mithrandir."  
  
Next to him, Elrohir nodded.  
"Sending an Istar to Mordor in a saddlebag is an interesting idea, but it might be a tiny bit unwise. If we disguised it as an undercover operation, however…"  
  
"Mithrandir would beat you over the head with his staff," Legolas laughed behind the three brothers. "And your father would do things far, far worse."  
  
The twins sighed in unison, apparently greatly disappointed.   
"You are right," Elladan admitted, crestfallen. "You see, Estel, you are our only option."  
  
"You wish," the man snorted softly, trying to decide where to put his feet without falling. "And besides, it's impossible. I told you so before."  
  
"We'll see," Elrohir smiled, a thoroughly disconcerting smile. "Oh yes, we'll see."  
  
"Ha!" the dark haired human exclaimed. "I seriously doubt…"   
  
Before Aragorn could finish the sentence, the tree root he had been grabbing as a handhold gave way and broke out of the almost vertical stone wall in front of him. He hadn't even realised what was happening when he had already slid down the path in a cloud of smoke, and the thought that he would be lucky if he cracked _both _his wrists this time had just constituted in his mind when a hand grabbed the back of his cloak, bringing his fall to a sudden stop. It took the man a few seconds to bring his wildly beating heart under control, and when the adrenaline had subsided sufficiently he slowly raised his head to meet his older brother's eyes.  
  
"See?" Elladan asked, exchanging a smug and also a little concerned look with his twin. "This is what we were talking about. This path wasn't made for humans – or elves, for that matter."  
  
"That was an accident," Aragorn tried to shrug off his brother's hand, scrambling for a foothold. "It won't happen again."  
  
"No, it won't," Elrohir nodded. "We are turning back."   
  
"No, we are not," the man shook his head. "We are almost there, Elrohir! It's only a few more dozen feet, and the path isn't that steep."   
  
The elf didn't answer him, either because he was very busy not laughing uproariously or because he had simply decided that the sentence was too stupid to be commented. Aragorn let his eyes wander over their surroundings, and the more sensible part of his brain commented wryly that he could even understand why Elrohir didn't say anything. There was, after all, no better word than "steep" to describe this … path.  
  
Aragorn carefully grabbed a rocky outcrop and hauled himself into a more or less standing position, for the first time truly beginning to question his sanity. The steep hillside they were climbing was several hundred feet high and composed of almost solid rock. It was situated to the north of Rivendell, a little bit more than half a mile away from the most northern building. The ridge was part of the ravine in which the settlement was built, and rose behind the buildings like a towering, steep wall.  
  
If one didn't look at it very closely, it appeared to be nearly vertical, but as soon as you were standing it front of it, it became clear that it was indeed not. It was more like a steep hillside, dotted here and there with shrubbery and small trees, and if you looked very, _very _ closely, you could even see the path they were trying to climb at the moment. It had been used by elven patrols many, many centuries ago, when the borders of Rivendell had still been smaller and less well-defined. There had been a guard post on top of the ridge once, but now that they were situated further away from here at the entrances to the valley, this path wasn't used anymore. The only people who came here were young elves trying to prove themselves – another description for them, however, used mostly by the older residents of Imladris, was "suicidal".  
  
And that wasn't that far from the truth, now that Aragorn thought about it. The path was rocky, it was uneven and it was unstable. The entire hillside was unstable, if he was perfectly honest, and not only that. There were smaller and larger fissures and cracks all over the place, and sometimes you could literally watch as stones and rocks came loose.  
  
But he was right about one thing: They _were _ almost there. They were near the head of the ridge, that was something he could see even from here. The only thing separating them from their goal was a large area that was covered with shrubbery and wild tangles of brambles, and even considering that it would take them a while to find a way around them they would get there in less than a half-hour. There was absolutely _no _way he would turn back now.  
  
"You can turn back if you want to," he shrugged and carefully moved upwards, past a heavily frowning Elladan. "I, however, plan to watch the sun reach her zenith over Rivendell."  
  
"You are insane," Legolas said quietly and shook his head. "Completely and utterly mad."  
  
"Probably," Aragorn nodded. "Now move."  
  
The fair haired elf shook his head again, but obediently began to climb once more. Aragorn ignored his brothers' dark looks and followed him, and finally Elladan did as well. Elrohir merely shook his head while he carefully picked spots where to place his hands and feet. He anxiously watched while Legolas reached the shrub-covered area, and shook his head yet again when the wood-elf grabbed the first bush he could reach to make room for Aragorn and Elladan who were slowly following.  
  
"Insane," Elrond's younger son mumbled to himself. "That is the wrong word, at least if you ask me!" He shot his twin a dark look, even though Elladan was not really to blame for anything. The dark haired elf had just reached the bushes as well, and was right now looking for a handhold.   
  
"He has completely lost his mind," he muttered, redirecting his attention to the task at hand, namely climbing the path without tumbling down the hillside. "I already pity the country he might get to rule one day. He'd probably have his subjects climb mountains all day long, just for fun. Or he'd push them into rivers, what about that? That would be quite amusing, too, wouldn't it, or even…"  
  
Elrohir was saying more, but his words were swallowed by a great, roaring sound that arose without the slightest warning. The ground beneath him shook, a huge cloud of dusk engulfed him and he almost lost his hold as the stones beneath his hands and feet moved and tumbled down the path. Rocks and pebbles rained down on him, and while he was still coughing and desperately trying to cling to the hillside, Elrohir decided that this was the closest thing to the sky coming crashing down on him that had ever happened to him.  
  
After a few seconds or half an eternity the ground finally stopped moving, and the elf could finally get a better grip on the root he was still gripping and that was the only thing that was preventing him from a potentially lethal fall at the moment. By the time he was certain that he wouldn't fall in the near future, the dust cloud had diminished somewhat, allowing him an occasional glimpse of his surroundings.  
  
One glimpse was more than enough, though. Elrohir nearly did fall after all when he saw that the bushes his brothers and Legolas had been clinging to were gone, and that neither the plants nor the two elves and the man were anywhere to be seen.  
  
Something, however, was to be seen that hadn't been there before: A narrow, pitch-black hole that gaped in front of him that seemed to swallow the rays of the sun, leaving him freezing in the suddenly cold air.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...**

  
  
  
  
  
_yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
muindor dithen (S.) - little brother  
  
  
  
  
_**•sighs contentedly• Ah, I missed this... You did too, you can admit it! •readers shake their heads while sharpening swords, scythes, daggers etc.• You're just deceiving yourselves, that's all. •g• Anyway, now that my alter ego got her wish I feel a lot better. The next chapter should be here in a week - at least I hope so - in which we see just what kind of mess the four have got themselves into this time. •g• As always: Review? Please?  
  
  
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Additional A/N:  
  
Isadora2** - •g• Ja, mir ist schon klar, dass ich streng genommen keine Reviewantworten etc. schreiben MUSS, aber na ja, macht doch mehr Spass, oder? Fuer alle Anwesenden... Ausserdem ist das der Zuckerbrot-und-Peitsche-Effekt. Man muss euch Leuten doch einen Ansporn zum Reviewschreiben bieten, nech? •g• Deine guten Wuensche usw. haben ja wie schon gesagt geholfen! Dafuer noch mal vielen Dank! •knuddelt•  
**Red Tigress** - A C2 group, huh? I checked it out, and you got six more subscribers int he past week or so. Congratulations! The thing is that I don't really have any favourite angst stories. My problem is that I have a very, VERY bad memory for things like that, so I tend to forget such things almost immediately. There are none that come to mind that aren't already on your list. I really think you got most of them - very impressive! •shakes hands•  
**Deana** - Well, you did have to wait for a bit I'm afraid... •grins stupidly• Uhm ... I'm sorry? I hope you're not too cross! •smiles innocently•  
**Nikara** - Hmm, I think that's not entirely correct. Isál will be the only one to fall off a tree for now. Aragorn, Legolas and Co. do something far, far more idiotc! I don't really think anyone here is very surprised... •g• And Aragorn hasn't met Arwen yet. I'm still trying to figure out how to fit her into everything. •frowns•  
**KLMeri** - Nope, it didn't sound sadistic AT ALL. I can't imagine anyone would think that. •g• It's nice to hear that there's another Erestor fan out there, and I really hope you'll enjoy this chapter. And I agree: I haven't been very fair until now. Time to remedy that! •Erestor runs off in panic• I wonder what HIS problem is... I'll see what I can do about Celylith, though. I am currently downsizing his role since it wouldn't have been very believable, but I think he'll make an appearance nonetheless. No, he's not too thrilled about that. •g•  
**HarryEstel** - I guess you could say he is a sneaky little devil, even though he would probably not agree. I don't know why either; he's a little weird. •g• I really hope your exam went well, too. Gosh, how I hate these things!  
**Alilacia** - First of all I have to say how great it is to 'see' you again! •huggles• I really missed you! It's great to hear that you're still reading my weird stories - you really are a tough little cookie! •g• Thanks for the chains, though. Celylith was already beginning to break open the door... I am very relieved to hear that you like Gaerîn. I'm always afraid for my female characters - I might create Mary-Sues without even noticing! •shudders• That would be horrible! I don't think she knows about her nickname, though. It's probably better that way. Once again, thanks for being back! •huggles again• Does that even make sense? •frowns•  
**Terrymcgrion** - Hmm, let me see. Isál will finally manage to tell Gaerîn how he feels (not that he would really need to, since she's neither stupid nor blind), even I have no idea if he'll manage to do so this story. And Elrond will finally prevail, too. I don't think anyone can be as stubborn as that half-elf! •g•  
**Lynn-G** - Don't worry about being confused - I tend to throw in too many details. I just can't help myself. •shrugs helplessly• You'll find out just why Glorfindel doesn't want to talk to Elrond, even though he needs Erestor to prod him until he admits it. Yes, he's a stubborn one, too. •g•  
**Galadhriel Vornionien** - Aww, come on! You're no fun at all! •grins and backs away• Alright, alright, I will consider NOT killing him. So now Isál and Gaerîn have to get married? Well, I certainly don't know about THAT... •evil grin•  
**CrazyLOTRfan - **You're quite evil and malicious, did anyone ever tell you that? I mean, honestly, mocking poor Isál like that... •shakes head• Not nice at all. LOL, 'no more random elf killing'? I can assure you, my friend, that it is never RANDOM. I always have a reason. •g• LOL again, torture-by-fangirls? Now that would be cruel, nothing else. Not even I am that inhumane. And yes, this is YOUR cliffy! Only yours! •g•  
**Radbooks** - You're a teacher? •wide eyes• Please tell me you're not teaching English or something like that. I'd be too afraid to post again if you were! But just HOW did you know that Erestor is going to wish he had listened to Elrond? •Erestor: •dryly• It might have been the summary, idiot.• Well, he has a point. •g•  
**Katie** - I don't really know yet what to do about Celylith. Considering that this story is most likely going to be about as long as my other ones (meaning about 25-30 chapters), I still have time to decide. I think he'll be in the story, but only at the end and only in a small role. This way he won't disturb the Rivendell elves but still gets to make an appearance. •shrugs• But I really don't know yet. And you're SO right: "Leafie" is the blackmail material of the century! •g•  
**Claudette** - Just how did you know Isál would be having company? •shakes head• You must be psychic or something like that! •g• I would never have thought of something like that... •g•  
**Zinnith** - •g• I'm not a morning person either. Not at all. I like to sleep. A lot. Maybe I am a sloth, just like Aragorn... •g• •blinks quickly• Uhm ... yes, of course you may call the deman Joe. It's a nice name, for a demon, that is. Very nice. •pats her back nervously• Very good idea, mate. And I think if you're writing a story like that, you could most certainly write a LOTR story. It's not that hard, I mean, even I can do it! •g• And I think that "getting-yourself-nearly-hanged" is Glorfindel's latest addition to the now infamous list. It IS rather un-elflordly behaviour, isn't it? You can still remember that little 'incident' from TWIN? Wow!  
**ElvinGirl3737** - I'm glad to hear that you liked that scene. I am never really planning to write them, they just ... happen. Aragorn and Legolas won't shut up, that's the problem... •glares at elf and ranger• Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Elvendancer** - You're not throwing anything? •incredulously• Really? •narrows eyes• Are you ill? Possessed? No? Well, thank you I guess... •g• I'm sorry for keeping you waiting though, so please don't throw anything at me now! •innocent, pleading smile•  
**Barbara Kennedy** - Yeah, you'll be waiting - but for how long? •evil cackle• •Nili appears and pushes Legolas to the side• Be silent, wood-elf. •smiles nervously• I'm sorry about him. He's a little vengeful lately, don't ask me why... Anyway, I am sorry for not updating sooner! I really wanted to, but... •shrugs•**  
Grumpy** - Yeah, I think Isál really should try to talk to her. But he really is VERY scared - and who could blame him? I mean, it's Gaerîn we're talking about here! •g• I think anybody would be scared!  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - Oh, don't worry about reviewing. My college computers can be quite strange, too. You never know whether they will work or not. •frowns• Most of the time, they don't. •evil grin• You don't want Erestor to get hurt? Well, I think that all depends on how you define 'hurt'. It might indeed happen that Elrond will have get himself a couple of new advisors, though. •g• So when are your GCSEs? Next summer? I know how important they are in the UK, so I'll wish you luck now! You can never have too much of it! •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Well, yes, I guess he could have had a little training accident. Please don't ask me why he didn't. Perhaps he wanted to impress her, since falling out of a tree is more of an accident than getting hurt in a fight. That's ineptitude. Then again, falling out of a tree isn't that graceful either, especially when you're an elf... •shrugs• Coincidence, I guess. Erestor is leaving this chapter •waves•, but Aragorn's present won't arrive for a while. And no, I'm not telling you! •g•  
**Aratfeniel** - •g• Great you liked it. LOL, yes, poetry and Legolas might prove really interesting. •g• I am really, really sorry for keeping all of you waiting for so long, it wasn't my fault. Well, yes, it really was my fault, but still. Sorry. •sheepish smile•  
**Tychen** - Maybe Erestor is merely very, VERY optimistic? It's either that or delusions of grandeur, that much is sure... •g• LOL, I love the idea of Celylith taking Elvynd to the side. •Celylith: Alright, first of all: Never go anywhere with the two of them unless your skills are absolutely indispensable. Got it? Elvynd: Yes. Celylith: Good. Now, secondly: Never accompany them anywhere after they have just told you what a great friend you are, therefore raising the angst-potential to dizzying heights. Elvynd: Never? Celylith: Never EVER.• •g• Oh yes, I can imagine that very well... •g• Poor them. •pats their heads•  
**Snow-Glory** - Yeah, Elrond might really kill all of them if he ever finds ouf about it. Then again, I don't think they would tell him, and if he has any sense at all, he won't ask either. •g• Nope, he will most definitely not ask!  
**Mystic Girl1** - Du? Hier? Mannomann! •knuddelt• Na, dich hab' ich ja 'ne ganze Weile nicht mehr gesehen! •knuddel• Schoen, dass du dich mal wieder meldest! Ich muss dir allerdings verzeihen. Abschlusspruefungen und Umzuege sind ein klein wenig wichtiger als Reviewen, das gebe sogar ich zu... •g• LOL, ich glaube, Legolas war ganz kurz davor, das Pferd auf alle anderen loszulassen. Man kann's ihm ja nicht wirklich veruebeln, oder? Ich glaube, Isál ist wirklich nicht sehr gespraechig, wenigstens nicht in Gaerîn's Naehe. Irgendwie verstaendlich... •g• Das Daumendruecken hat auch geholfen, danke! •knuddelt noch mal•  
**Dead Girl Snoozing** - •hugs back• Thanks. I am by no means brilliant (Thanks for saying it, though! •g•), but the exam did indeed go well even though I really, really don't like Medieval History. •shudders• No, not at all, preciousss... •g• GCSEs are evil, too. I know how important they are in the UK, so I really wish you luck! The twins don't appear in LotR THAT much, but they're definitely there. They come to Rohan with the Grey Company, that's in RotK, I think, and fight with Aragorn and the Captains of the West from then on. They're not in the Silmarillion, but 95 of the Silmarillion are about things before the War of the Ring.  
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - I don't think I'll ever write a story about Aragorn as a child. I don't like children overly much, and I certainly couldn't figure out what a five-year-old would think. Children are harder to figure out than most people think. LOL, and it most certainly is love AND folly. And you're right of course: Legolas and Aragorn know very well how to get themselves - or others - into the healing room. As I said, I was not planning to keep you waiting for so long, and I am really, really sorry. But I have to admit that I might be a Nazgûl. I'm not completey sure yet, though. •g•  
**Arrina** - Yes, you're right. Lots of angst for everyone, but especially for Elrond and Erestor. And Glorfindel, I'd imagine. •evil grin• But I really hope no one helps Celylith to get out of that closet! He might be a tiny bit angry... •g• You only had to wait for a day then! That's good, isn't it? •ducks quickly• Apparently not...  
**Viggomaniac** - No need to worry, my friend, Aragorn is indeed "not fully recovered". And even if he were, it wouldn't matter overly much since he is right now getting into even more trouble. He really IS busy, isn't he? •g• LOL, you like long stories? You just might have come to the right place... •g• But you're priting them out? I am impressed! Your printer must be very resilient! I hope you won't get stuck, though. It's not nearly as funny as it sounds if you ask me. •g•  
**Marbienl** - Oh, I still don't believe the "ball your fists"-thing if I'm completely honest. It just sounds rather crazy, you know? Nothing new here then... •g•And I think it's a lot easier to learn stuff you want to learn (like Turgon's hair colour) than things you'd rather forget immediately. But I have to protest! I do NOT want to tie Glorfindel to anything! I'm not suicidal! Do you know what he'd DO to me if I tried that? You can try to hypnotise me all you want, btw. I won't write an Estel-childhood-story. I don't like children all that much, and I couldn't figure out what a ten-year-old (or a five-year-old or a fifteen-year-old) was thinking. Nor would I want to, I think. •g• I think Tolkien said in fact that there weren't many elflings around at that time (or rather, none), but I like to think there were at least some. It would have been dreadfully boring otherwise, don't you think? And yes, I will think about such a scene. 'Think' being the main word here. •g• I don't know about Arwen to be perfectly honest. I know I'll have to bring her into this soon (and I don't really mind), but I just don't know how. •frowns• We'll see.  
**Celebdil-Galad** - •g• I hope you didn't get into any trouble because you reviewed! That would be very, very unfair! That teacher sounds really unfriendly, though. I have known a lot like them, and they're just trying to compensate for ... something. You're still underage, I believe, so I won't say what I was really thinking. •g•  
**Sadie Elfgirl** - Hey! Nice to 'see' you again! •huggles• Don't worry about reviewing, I just hope you're enjoying my strange little story until now! I have to agree though, Legolas and Aragorn wouldn't REALLY hurt each other. Much. •g• I admit that I have no idea how many rolls of parchment Erestor needed to write down Glorfindel's list, but I'm willing to bet that it was a lot. Midterms, huh? •shudders• Poor you! •huggles•  
  
**Once again, I'm sorry for not updating sooner. I wish I had someone to blame, but I really don't. My bad. •g•  
  
  
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	6. Sticks And Stones

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:  
  
•grins evilly• Yes, Erestor, Glorfindel and the others are rather adept at ignoring all the not-so-subtle warnings of imminent and painful doom. I think it's in fact a trait of the Rivendell Elves. It might, however, also be a contagious disease, which would explain the whole Bilbo-Frodo-Ring-of-Power-thing... •g• Maybe all the near-deaths are to blame, who knows?  
  
It's nice to know that all of you like the dear Captain Gasur. He's yet another of those people who are so very obviously evil that it's almost sad. •g• I'm not completely sure yet with whom of our dear elves/rangers/innocent bystanders he'll become acquainted first, but I think it's safe to say that he'll be a major character. •gives readers a hard look• You really could try to suppress that malicious, anticipatory grin, you know. •g•  
  
Oh, and one last thing: Acalith (aka the Evil Villainous Lady from Hell) was NOT married to Girion. Nu-uh. Absolutlely not. As in No Way. I mean, really! There are two main reasons for that: First, Rhûn is ... well, in the East, while Aberon is not, and second: Who is her right mind would have married •Girion•? Not even Acalith is THAT insane. •thinks• Well, yeah, she might be, but that's beside the point. •g•  
  
  
Yes, I'll shut up now. Here's the next bit, and we find out whether or not the three of them have "broken all the bones in their bodies". Elrohir also has something that could be called a small hysteric fit, Gaerîn and Gelydhiel make a brief appearance, and Elladan seems to have watched "Cliffhanger" (No pun intended! •g•) one too many times. Silly elf.  
  
Have fun and review, please!  
  
  
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Chapter 6  
  
  
For a few seconds, Elrohir could do nothing but stare at the hole that had so suddenly appeared in front of his eyes. With the curious detachment that only shock could bring he watched how pebbles and small stones trickled down the sides of the crevice, looking almost like running water to his unbelieving eyes. Had the elf been a little more coherent, he would have recognised his peculiar state of mind as shock, but right now the part of his brain that was actually functioning normally was preciously small.  
  
Holes just didn't appear out of thin air, he decided with strange clarity a few moments later. He was no dwarf and therefore no expert in the workings and behaviour of stone and rocks, but he was reasonably certain about that fact. Well, as reasonably certain as an elf clinging to a hillside could be about anything.  
  
It was then that time seemed to speed up again and the more reasonable part of his brain suddenly awoke, and Elrohir's curiously calm and composed state of mind disintegrated in less than half a second. Before he even knew what he was doing he moved forward into the direction where the bushes had been only moments earlier, his fingers frantically scrambling for purchase on the rough, sharp-edged rocks.  
  
"Elladan!" The shout flew from his lips without him even realising it. "Elladan!!" The full implications of what had just happened crashed down on him, and his fear grew even more, something he had thought highly unlikely. "Estel! Legolas! Elladan!"  
  
Nothing could be heard but the sounds of still falling stones and shifting earth, and without the slightest regard for his own safety the dark haired twin moved forward, grabbing rocks, roots, earth and anything else that offered even the slightest handhold. Elrohir didn't even realise he called out his brothers' and friend's names while he scrambled over to the edge of the hole, and when he finally reached it, he very nearly fell in himself.  
  
"Elladan! Estel!" he called again, managing to grab a still protruding root just in time. "Legolas! Answer me, one of you!"  
  
There was no answer, and the tiny, reasonable part of his mind noted how his fear slowly but surely turned into panic. This was not happening, he ranted inwardly, this _could not _be happening! No matter how much he fought to ignore them, the dark memories of what had happened more than three hundred years ago rose inside of him like a malicious cloud.  
  
Fate, it seemed, truly possessed a sense of irony, for three hundred years ago it had been him who had fallen down a cliff. Only in his darkest hours had he been able to imagine what Elladan must have felt at that time, and now more than ever he truly understood. The vision of his brother's blood-covered, broken body appeared in his mind's eye despite his best efforts, and pushing them aside as products of his overactive imagination helped little. They were quickly and seamless replaced by new images of Aragorn's and Legolas' bodies in the same condition or even worse ones, and that was by no means something to reassure him.  
  
Shortly before panic could turn into something even worse, the elven twin closed his eyes for a second and forced himself to calm down. Getting lost in a mindless panic would help no one right now, least of all his brothers and Legolas. The only thing it would help achieve was his fall into this Valar-forsaken hole that had already ensnared Elladan, Legolas and Estel.   
  
"Estel!" the elf called again while he carefully began to move around the hole's edges, intent on finding a spot where he could start to descend into its depths. It had to be deep because his eyes couldn't pierce the blackness no matter how hard he tried, that much he knew. If he was completely honest, it had to be even very deep. "Elladan! If you do not answer me now, I will do something thoroughly horrible to you!"  
  
There was no sound to be heard, and Elrohir had to stop his hands from shaking with fear and panic. He slowly began to make his way over to the far side of the hole where some bushes were still remaining, therefore giving him the hope that he might be able to use them as handhold when he tried to descend into the dark opening.  
  
Now that he was close to the edges of the hole, he saw that it had indeed not appeared out of thin air – something that would have positively astonished him anyway. The stone of the opening's walls were smooth and age-worn, yet the edges were ragged and had apparently been created by the small landslide that had taken his brothers and Legolas.  
  
The hole itself had probably been here all along, the dark haired twin realised with a small stab of horror that only served to heighten the guilt and anxiety that was eating at his heart. With the passage of time, the fissure-like opening had likely been blocked by debris and a shallow layer of earth had accumulated on top, enough to allow the roots of bushes and shrubbery to take hold. While it had been stable enough for a few bushes and even for one elf, it had not been able to hold the weight of two of the Firstborn and one man, and so the three of them had broken through the thin layer of stone and earth and shrubbery.  
  
Fallen, Elrohir went on without being able to stop himself, feeling how the panic once again began to grew inside of him. Fallen how far? How far down went this accursed fissure? Where were his brothers and Legolas?   
  
"Elladan!" the younger twin yelled, not at all caring that the fear that was burning inside of him was audible in his voice. "Don't do this to me, brother! Please!"  
  
The elf was already moving again, his eyes never leaving the solid-looking formation of rocks he had chosen as a handhold, when a faint, almost undetectable sound reached his ears. His hand that had been reaching out for a protruding root froze in mid-motion, very nearly serving to dislodge him from his perch that was precarious at best.  
  
"Estel? Elladan? Legolas? Answer me!"  
  
He was not sure, could not be sure if he had heard it at all, but the tiny hope that one of the three might still be relatively close to the surface (he didn't even dare entertain the thought that they might in fact not be) gave him new strength. In a matter of two seconds he had reached the spot where the last of the bushes still clung stubbornly to the edge of the hole, grabbed a frighteningly brittle branch to prevent himself from falling into the opening head first and peered intently into the dark space.  
  
"Aragorn? Elladan! Answer me, Morgoth take it all!" Elrohir waited for a few moments, listening intently for a reply, but there was none forthcoming.  
  
The dark haired elf clenched his jaw and swallowed convulsively, but stubbornly tightened his grip on the branch. The sensible thing to do would be to get back to Rivendell now and return with help as quickly as possible. He didn't even know for sure if his brothers and Legolas were still alive, and as long as they did not answer him, he couldn't even offer them some solace or comfort from up here.  
  
Yes, he nodded darkly. It would be the sensible thing to do, but since when exactly did he always do what would be the sensible thing? He would _not _return to Imladris to tell his father that he had lost his brothers and Legolas and that they might very well be dead already. There was absolutely no way he'd do that.  
  
"Listen to me closely, you three," he told the dark hole he was staring at, his voice rough with fear and barely suppressed panic. "If you do not answer me, right now, I will…"  
  
"…do something thoroughly horrible … t-to us," a voice reached his ears, barely audible even to Elrohir's sensitive ears. "Yes, Elrohir. We … w-we heard you the first time."  
  
Elrohir was surprised that he couldn't actually see the weight that had just been lifted from his shoulders. Then again, he would have had to look for it, and averting his eyes from the fissure in front of him was the one thing he couldn't afford at the moment.  
"Legolas?" he asked, trying to keep his enormous relief out of his voice and failing miserably. "Legolas, is that you? Where in the name of all the Valar _are _you?"  
  
"In a deep … dank … hole," the elven prince's voice announced, sounding torn between pain and amusement. "And here I … thought that to be … obvious."  
  
The other elf grinned even despite the dire situation all of them were facing. If Legolas felt well enough to make stupid jokes, he couldn't be injured too badly. That was what he hoped, anyway.  
  
"Ah, _there _you are," he said, as if he had only just understood that one of his best friends had fallen into a possibly bottomless chasm. "Now I see." Elrohir became serious again and leaned forward, staring intently into the dark abyss in front of him. It might have been his imagination, of course, but he thought he saw something fair, pale golden down there. "Elbereth, where are you, Legolas? Are you hurt? Where are Elladan and Estel?"  
  
Legolas sighed, realising with a small stab of surprise that he didn't even care if Elrohir heard him or not – and he wouldn't. Due to circumstances beyond his control, he couldn't really see much of the hole, but he was reasonably certain that he had fallen at least thirty feet, if not more. Considering the way he felt, it had probably been closer to forty or fifty feet.  
  
"I don't know where I am, Elrohir," he answered in a long-suffering tone of voice. A sudden stab of pain went through him, making him clench his teeth and close his eyes in order not to actually scream. "I … I c-can see Elladan next to me, but I don't know … where Aragorn is."  
  
Elrohir narrowed his eyes, both because of Legolas' words and to bring a part of the opening's wall into better perspective. There, somewhere below him in the inky darkness, he thought he could see something like a ledge, and if he strained his eyes, he thought he could see something fair – like Legolas' hair. He was enormously relieved to hear that the Silvan elf could at least see Elladan, and yet…  
  
"Are you hurt, Legolas?" he asked again, leaning forward even more in an attempt to see his friend or his twin. "Is Elladan alright? Can you move? Are you hurt, you stubborn wood-elf?"  
  
Legolas didn't answer immediately, both to stall and to catch his breath. Was he hurt? That was an exceedingly good question, and in truth a question whose answer he dreaded.  
"Not … not hurt in the truest sense of the word," he finally half-said and half-gasped. "I am stuck, I think."  
  
In truth, he did not _think _that he was stuck – he _knew _he was. Everybody would be stuck who was being pinned to the ground by a ridiculously large boulder that was right now threatening to squash you, after all. Even a cave-troll might find itself inconvenienced by the situation he was facing at the moment, a thought that awoke an inward wave of laughter in the elven prince that did little to alleviate the pain in his chest. The mass of stones and earth that was pinning him to the ledge that had abruptly stopped his fall was also what was preventing him from seeing Elrohir or getting up and checking whether the other twin was alright – or from searching for Aragorn. Oh Elbereth, the wood-elf thought frantically. Aragorn.  
  
"Can you see Aragorn?" he asked in a suddenly much stronger tone of voice, the increasing pain in his chest forgotten for now. "Elrohir? Can you see him?"  
  
The older twin did not answer, his eyes narrowing even further. When he was almost sure that he wouldn't be able to see anything in this Valar-forsaken hole any time soon, the dark shapes and shadows suddenly assembled and began to make sense. Elrohir's heart froze in his chest when he saw what Legolas so nonchalantly described as "being stuck". The fair haired elf was buried under what looked like one or two tons of stones and earth. A remarkably large boulder was lying on his chest and pinning him to the ground so that the only things visible of him were some strands of long hair and his right arm.   
  
Elrohir's eyes travelled over to the edge of the small ledge that had undoubtedly saved Legolas' life. He released a breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding when his eyes came to rest on his twin brother's still form who was lying to Legolas' right, even though his crumpled body was far too close to the edge for his liking. He was almost as buried under debris as Legolas was. He couldn't see whether or not Elladan was breathing and his eyes were closed, but there was a large, blooding abrasion on his forehead that still seemed to ooze blood. Elrohir closed his own eyes for a second and sent a fervent prayer of thanks to Ilúvatar, for dead elves did not bleed. Elladan was alive, he _had _to be alive.  
  
"No," he finally replied, remembering Legolas' earlier question. "No, I can't see him, but I can see you and Elladan. Can you move, Legolas? And cease being so stubborn and tell me whether you are hurt or not, for Manwë's sake!"  
  
Legolas closed his eyes for a moment, having to force himself not to try and move upon hearing that Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. He had tried that course of action earlier on and it had availed him nothing; if he did it again, he was quite sure that he would pass out again.  
"No, Elrohir," he finally answered tiredly, "I can't move. As I said, I am stuck. And I am not hurt. As long as I don't move, don't breathe and don't blink, I am just fine."  
  
Elrohir was no stranger to irony, and he most certainly recognised it when it jumped up and down in front of him, practically begging for attention. He was also no fool, and the pain and worry in the other elf's voice were things only a foolish or deaf person wouldn't have noticed.   
"Then don't move, don't breathe and don't blink," he advised the fair haired elf, trying to hide his own worry and fear. "Do you have no idea where Estel could be?" he tried again, a part of him realising that he was once again getting dangerously close to a panic. "Has he … fallen?"  
  
Legolas was just opening his mouth to tell Elrohir in unmistakable terms that he had already told him that he hadn't the slightest idea when another voice spoke up, sounding at least as weary and pain-filled as the fair haired elf's.  
"As … as long as he doesn't … wake up he s-should be … fine."   
  
It took Elrohir a second to realise who had spoken, but then he leaned forward even more, most of his body seeming to hang over the edge of the fissure now.  
"Elladan? Is that you?"  
  
"No," the older twin grinned weakly at the very small shape he thought to be his twin. "No, I am really … Aulë. The two of them … barged into my forge." He coughed weakly. "I am going to beseech Manwë to … smite you, j-just you wait."  
  
"That is of course your prerogative, honoured one," Elrohir remarked ironically, the light tone of voice belying the worry in his heart that was right now doubling exponentially. What could Elladan possibly mean with "as long as he doesn't wake up"? "Where is Estel, brother? Can you see him? Are you alright?"  
  
While Elrohir was still berating himself for the stupidity of his last question, Elladan blinked tiredly, trying to force his jumbled thoughts into something resembling an order.  
"I am … stuck," he unknowingly repeated Legolas' earlier words. "And Estel," he lifted the hand that was not buried under earth and stones and made a vague movement to his right, into the direction of the abyss that gaped only a few inches next to him, "is there."  
  
Legolas, who was trying very hard not to panic at the moment, looked up at Elladan's words, straining to lift himself enough to see the spot at which the dark haired elf was pointing. It was useless, he realised a moment later to his immense displeasure. With the earth and stones pressing down on him and Elladan right in front of his nose, there was no way he would see anything else in the near future.  
  
"Where is he?" he asked no one in particular. "Elrohir? Can you see him? Is he alright?"  
  
Elrohir did not answer, mainly because he was very busy trying not to start hyperventilating. It had long ago occurred to him that every time you thought you had seen every nightmarish situation that could possibly exist in these lands, the Valar delighted in showing you how very wrong you had been. No matter how bad things were, they could always get worse – and they usually did, too. Not once in all the years since Arathorn's death had he imagined himself being faced with something like this, not even during Aragorn's rather reckless adolescence when they had all expected the young man to break his neck any second now.  
  
At least Elladan's confused and confusing words from earlier made sense now, he thought to himself while he tried to shake off the paralysis that seemed to have stolen over his limbs. As long as Estel didn't wake, he should be fine – or not. The young man in question was right now unconscious and dangling over a potentially bottomless chasm, and all that prevented him from falling to his doom was his right hand that was caught in what looked like a piece of wood protruding from the ragged wall of the fissure. Elrohir could not tell whether the wood was the root of a bush or something of the sort or a piece of wood that had got stuck there in the landslide, but if he was perfectly honest, he didn't really care either. All he knew was that it was the only thing preventing his little brother from falling to his death.  
  
"O sweet Eru," the elf breathed, horrified.  
  
"Elrohir?" Legolas' voice invaded his consciousness once again. "Elrohir! What is it? I can't see him; is he alright?"  
  
"No, he's not," Elrohir asked curtly, avoiding going into detail. "I'm coming down."  
  
"No," Elladan shook his head, something that made the pain in his skull flare up once more. "Go back home and get help."  
  
"Elladan," his twin began, not even trying to sound patient, "If I stay here and Estel regains consciousness, he will panic. And then he will fall."  
  
"If you try to climb down here without ropes or anything of the like, _you _will fall," Legolas told the younger twin seriously. "The last thing I need right now is you added to the weight on my chest."   
  
He tried to ignore the pain that ripped through him at tiny every movement and the distinct feeling that there was an invisible troll standing next to him who was shattering his ribs one by one and pulled himself up, finally managing to move his body upwards a few inches. He craned his neck and managed to cast a look over Elladan's shoulder, only to let himself sink back down again both in shock and pain.  
"Get help, Elrohir," he said, pain and fear to equal parts audible in his voice. "Go. Now."  
  
"I can't leave you!" Elrohir exclaimed, giving the houses that were visible in the distance a quick look before returning his attention to the hole in front of him. "I have to help…"  
  
"I can free myself before he wakes, brother," Elladan tried to reassure his twin, already beginning to try and shift the earth and stones that pinned him to the small stone ledge. "I was luckier than Legolas. I can do it, Elrohir. Go and find help, _gwanur nín_. Please. Go now."   
  
Elrohir frowned, obviously torn between what he wanted to do and what he knew to be the sensible thing. He cast a quick look over his shoulder and turned back, indecision on his face.  
"I will need at least an hour to bring back help, most likely longer. What if…"  
  
"Go!" Legolas' and Elladan's voices interrupted the worried elf. "Now, Elrohir!"  
  
Elrohir narrowed his eyes at the slightly exasperated elves beneath him, but nodded finally. He opened his mouth to say something, but recognised the dark look Elladan was shooting him while trying to free himself and wisely chose to remain silent. Without saying another word he turned to the side, and a few seconds later even the sounds of him searching for hand- and footholds faded in the distance. When only the faint sound of falling stones could be heard, Legolas turned his head and looked intently at Elladan who had nearly managed to free his right leg of the debris.  
  
"Can you really reach him, Elladan?"  
  
Elladan stopped pushing earth and stones to the side and looked at him. With the blood caking his hair to his skull and the wide, frightened eyes he looked remarkably like a battered puppy.  
"I don't know," he admitted uncertainly, but immediately returned to his work. "It would probably be best if I dug you out first."   
  
"No," Legolas shook his head. "There isn't enough time. He could wake up anytime now. What would you do if you woke up to this?"  
  
"Scream," Elladan muttered wryly. "Very loudly."  
  
The elf's eyes darted to his human brother's almost motionless figure. The trapped hand was beginning to assume a rather unhealthy, purple colour, and yet he found himself praying that the tree root would hold. From where he was sitting, it looked as if Aragorn's hand had somehow got caught in a forked branch while the three of them had fallen into his accursed hole, and the wood had in turn got caught in a small gap in the rock wall. Elladan shook his head and renewed his efforts to free himself. He had never met a person who'd such luck after having been so decidedly unlucky.  
  
After several minutes of tense silence, Elladan finally managed to push the last heavy rock off his lower body, and a few moments later he pulled his left leg free of the debris that was still piled on top of it. The elf carefully sat up, knowing that if he did it too quickly his head would most likely explode or do something similarly painful. He willed himself to ignore the dull pain that throbbed in his chest and especially his left hip and turned to Legolas, frowning when he saw the other elf's faintly blue-tinged lips.   
  
"Let me get that boulder off you first. Estel would kill me if I let you suffocate without even trying to do anything about it."  
  
The wood-elf's eyes flew open, disorientation dancing over his dust- and blood-covered featured. For a few seconds it seemed as if he didn't know where he was, but then his pain-filled eyes fixed on the dark haired elf and he nodded after having shot the still unconscious man a quick look.   
"Alright. But hurry."  
  
Elladan gave him a wry look, his hands already moving to get a hold of the large stone that was pressing onto the other elf's breastbone.   
"I was originally planning to take my time. You know, look around for a little while, have a bit of small talk…"  
  
"Very … funny," Legolas ground out between gritted teeth. A second later Elladan tried to shift the boulder to the side, but his head was still pounding and his hands were shaking, and so he hadn't managed to get a proper hold on it. The stone fell back into place onto the fair haired elf's chest, and this time Legolas couldn't stifle a cry of pain. Elladan's hurriedly spoken words of apology blurred together with the roaring of blood in his ears, and Legolas needed a few moments until he was able to open his eyes again. "The … idea is to … r-remove the boulder, Elladan," he gasped, still fighting off waves of white-hot pain. "Not to … press it down even … harder."  
  
"Really?" Elladan quipped nervously, trying to disguise the guilt and worry he felt. "You should have told me sooner."  
  
"And here I thought … that Noldor knew something about … stones and rocks," Legolas retorted, attempting to lighten the mood. Why was he even trying, he asked himself a moment later. The only thing that could possibly make all this worse would be a sudden appearance of the Dark Lord himself. Or of Lord Elrond, that was optional in Legolas' opinion.  
  
"Lie still and let me work, wood-elf. The Deep Elves know secrets you puny Silvan and Sindarin Elves could only dream of," Elladan declared with more confidence than he felt, urgency gnawing at the very core of his being. He didn't have time for this, a small part of him screamed in something closely resembling a panic. Estel needed his help!  
  
Legolas seemed to entertain much the same thoughts, for he merely gave Elladan an incredulous stare and an impatient nod.  
"Hurry then, o wise one," he said softly, realising that he didn't have the breath to speak any louder. "And get Aragorn off that stupid wall."  
  
"Ah yes. I'd almost forgotten about that," the dark haired elf nodded, pushing with all his might against the boulder. He truly didn't know how such an action could make his headache even worse – and he should. He was a healer, after all, at least he thought so. He wasn't really sure about much at the moment.  
  
He gave a last great push, ignoring the sharp edges of the rock that dug into his hands, and with a rather disconcerting, grinding noise the boulder came free. Legolas bit down on his lower lip so hard that he tasted blood, but as soon as the large rock was lifted from his chest he immediately felt how much easier breathing became. For the first few seconds he merely enjoyed the feeling of being covered only by several dozen fist-sized stones, but then he realised that the additional oxygen unfortunately allowed him to feel all the other pains and aches he had been able to ignore until now. Wonderful, he thought and gritted his teeth. This was just his kind of luck, wasn't it?  
  
A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he looked up, straight into Elladan's worried eyes.  
"Are you alright?"  
  
"Yes," Legolas answered quickly and not entirely truthfully. "Yes, I am. Don't worry about me and get Aragorn over here."  
  
It was a testament to the other elf's worry that he didn't protest but merely squeezed Legolas' shoulder before turning back to where Aragorn was still hanging by his wrist, mercifully unconscious. A thin trail of blood snaked down his right cheek, and Elladan found himself praying that his human brother wouldn't regain consciousness. To wake up to something like this would be enough to send anyone into a mindless panic. Elladan surveyed the scene in front of him for several long moments before he turned back, despair in his eyes.  
  
"I can't do anything, Legolas. I can hardly reach him from here, and if I try to dislodge his hand, he might fall. If I manage to dislodge it at all, that is."  
  
Legolas stopped trying to shift a large stone and looked at him.  
"Well, you'd better come up with something, because he will fall sooner or later, especially if he should wake up." Elladan merely looked at him with wide eyes, and so he added, "This isn't the first time something like this has happened, you know. Just remember – what is he? – your great-great-granduncle, Fingon? He managed to save his cousin under much more daunting circumstances and…"  
  
"Don't even think about something like that!" Elladan hissed at him. "Just don't!" Legolas merely nodded sheepishly, realising now that that might not have been the right thing to say. The only way Fingon had managed to rescue Maedhros from Thangorodrim had been by cutting off the other's hand – not really something either of them wanted to think about now. Elladan gave him another dark look and added indignantly, "And Estel isn't even red haired!"  
  
It took one or two seconds for them to realise how utterly ridiculous that comment was, and under any other circumstances they would have laughed. Now, however, Elladan merely smiled tensely and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them again and fixed Legolas with a penetrating stare which the wood-elf returned, not stopping in his endeavour to try and free himself of the rubble.  
"I'll need your cloak if you can reach your clasp. Quickly, please."  
  
Legolas needn't be told what Elladan was planning to do, and so he swiftly reached for the brooch that secured his cloak at his throat, fumbling for a while since most of his left arm was still buried under a heap of stones and earth.  
"Do you still have your knife?" he asked as he handed over the torn, now dusty-grey cloth.  
  
"Yes," the other elf nodded and took out the weapon in question. "I am just glad that I didn't bring my bow; I doubt it would have survived this amusing little tumble."  
  
"You and me both, my friend, you and me both," Legolas nodded, watching how Elladan cut his cloak into long strips and began to knot them together. His bow had been a gift his father and Aragorn had given him last winter, and he would have hated to lose it to something as stupid as a landslide. "Are you going to…"  
  
Before he could finish his question, he saw Elladan stiffen next to him. The dark haired elf's eyes were firmly fixed on his human brother, and if Legolas had seen the twin more anxious or horror-struck lately, he surely could not remember it. For a moment, Legolas thought that Elladan might be beginning to suffer from the oppressive darkness and the close confines of the fissure they had so unfortunately stumbled over, but then he managed to look past the other elf for a brief moment and saw Aragorn swing slightly from side to side as he tried to lift his head. His face instantly turned the same shade of grey as Elladan's and he sighed inwardly. Couldn't that man learn when to _stay _unconscious, in Elbereth's name?  
  
Aragorn was right now entertaining much the same thoughts. He would have given almost everything to lose consciousness again, even though no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember what had happened. He had a vague feeling that he had been climbing something, and then all he could remember was the feeling of falling into nothing and Legolas' outstretched hand, only inches away from his. He didn't know whether or not he had managed to grab it, but judging by the way he and most noticeably his right arm felt, he guessed not.  
  
There was a dull ache throbbing through him with every heartbeat, but the real pain seemed to be centred in his head and right wrist, which did indeed feel as if it were slowly being devoured by something sharp-teethed and ravenous. He had never truly been able to imagine what Beren must have felt like when the great wolf Carcharoth had bitten off his hand – until now, that was.  
  
He was still trying to figure out how a wolf could possibly have got a hold of him when a voice invaded his consciousness, swimming in and out of focus.  
"Aragorn? Estel, don't …. look … your eyes, brother. Please, just don't…"  
  
The voice appeared familiar, somehow, but Aragorn truly couldn't figure out why. Then again, what the voice seemed to be asking him to do, namely not to open his eyes, wouldn't be too hard. Somebody seemed to have placed leaden weights on his eyelids, and besides, he was revising his opinion from earlier. His wrist wasn't being eaten by a wolf, it had to be something far bigger and more vicious. Something like a warg, maybe, or Rashwe. He grinned inwardly even despite the pain in his hand and arm when he imagined Legolas' horse chewing on his arm. The internal grin faded quickly though when he noticed, for the first time, that he was swinging from side to side, something that puzzled him greatly. How was that possible?  
  
"Estel?"  
  
The man groaned. There was that damned voice again.   
  
"Aragorn? Whatever you do, _mellon nín_, don't open your eyes." The speaker fell silent for a moment before he added as an afterthought, "Oh, and don't move."  
  
"Good advice, Legolas," another voice said dryly. There was a small grating sound, as if someone was very cautiously moving over stone. "Very good advice indeed."  
  
"Thank you, Elladan. _Hurry_, for Manwë's sake, he is waking up!"  
  
"I can see that, Legolas!"  
  
The words were washing over Aragorn like a wave washing over the surf and were making absolutely no sense at all. All he knew was that Rashwe or something equally malicious was shredding his wrist, even though he was beginning to suspect to whom these two voices belonged. It fitted, after all, because every time he was in some sort of trouble, they weren't far behind.   
  
"Legolas?" he asked softly, or at least tried to. The word that he finally managed to articulate was more like a croak than anything else, even to his own ears. "Elladan?"  
  
"Aragorn!" the wood-elf's voice exclaimed, sounding very relieved. "Aragorn, listen to me: Do – not – open – your – eyes. Do you understand?"  
  
The young man frowned, both because he could make no sense of what his friend was saying and because the pain in his arm and hand got steadily worse. The sound he had been hearing next to him became louder and seemed to draw closer, finally prompting him to open his eyes with an obvious effort.   
  
At first, he didn't really understand what exactly he was seeing and he craned his neck, something that caused him to sway from side to side. 'Wait a moment,' Aragorn told himself, 'Sway from side to side?!' He looked up and narrowed his eyes when he saw his right hand which looked purple, unhealthy and was covered with quite a bit of blood. It seemed to be caught between the forks of a sturdy branch, which in turn seemed to have got stuck in a long, narrow gap in the stone wall. Stone wall, he asked himself. What stone wall?  
  
More words reached his ears, telling him to remain calm, but they barely registered in his brain as his eyes slowly travelled downwards, past his own dangling body to see … nothing. There was nothing beneath him, only the inky blackness of empty air. Aragorn gasped as the full extent of his present situation hit him. He was dangling over a bottomless pit by his wrist.   
  
He didn't even realise that his breathing quickened and he began to move frantically, his thoughts only bent on getting away from here, _now_. The pain in his wrist spiked as his struggles increased, but he didn't care. He had to free himself, he had to get away from here, he had to…   
  
The brief spell of panic didn't last long. Before he could really do any damage to himself or had even reached up, a long hand closed around his trapped wrist. The brief contact was enough to calm him slightly, or at least enough for him to hear the soft voice that spoke next to his head.  
  
"I have you, Estel," Elladan said quietly, one of his hands gripping the gap over Aragorn's head and one the young man's wrist. "Calm down, all will be well, calm down…"  
  
Aragorn took several deep breaths and willed himself to obey his brother's command. The elf's hand on his was strangely reassuring, but he _ still _was dangling over a bottomless chasm, a situation that was not exactly conducive to calming down.  
"How," he began hoarsely, "am I to calm down while hanging over a bottomless abyss?"  
  
"Don't ask me, brother," Elladan shrugged as much as an elf clinging to a stone wall with only one hand could. "I am panicking right now."   
  
Legolas glared at the other elf's back, but the relief he felt ruined his dark look. Elladan was right now clinging to the wall over Aragorn's head in a manner that only an elf could, with one of his hands grasping the small gap where the branch had got caught and one hand wrapped tightly around the man's trapped wrist. The strips of cloth that had once been his and Legolas' cloaks had been knotted into a rope, whose one end was tied around the large boulder that had once been pressing onto Legolas' chest and the other around the dark haired elf's waist. It was just a precaution, because Elladan had no intention of falling.  
  
"Alright, Estel," the elven twin said far more calmly than he felt. "Calm down. I won't let you fall, I promise."  
  
"I know," Aragorn answered through gritted teeth, his chest still heaving. "I know you won't. And I _am _calm."  
  
"Perfect!" Elladan grinned and tightened the hold he had on his human brother's hand. "Can you reach up, Estel? Can you feel your fingers?"   
  
"No," the man shook his head minutely. "No, I can't. I think the wrist is broken or badly sprained, at least."  
  
"No matter," Elladan smiled tensely. "Can you give me your other hand? We wouldn't want you to fall once I pull your wrist free, would we?"   
  
"Definitely not," Aragorn grunted and carefully reached up, the fingers of his left hand moving up inch by inch to finally touch his brother's fingers. "What now?"  
  
"Now," Legolas answered, exchanging a quick look with Elladan, "we pray."  
  
Aragorn frowned, clearly confused, but before he could ask Legolas what he was talking about, Elladan had grabbed the man's left hand. Pulling him up slightly and ignoring the young ranger's barely stifled cry of pain, he took a deep breath and, with a quick movement, shifted his hold from his brother's hand to his upper arm. Elladan gave the startled and pained-looking man an apologetic look and jerked him upwards with an almost brutal movement.  
  
Legolas wasn't really sure whether the sound of the branch being ripped out of the thin crack in the wall or Aragorn's scream was louder, and he had little time to dwell on it even if he had wanted to. Elladan had needed more force than he had thought to free the man's trapped hand, and in combination with Aragorn's weight that was suddenly added to his when he slung his arm around the ranger's waist it was enough for the elf to lose his hold on the wall. Before either of them could even blink they fell until the rope went taut, bringing them to a sudden and rather painful halt.  
  
Elladan released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding, and he was just turning to the rather pale man he was holding with his left arm when the makeshift rope gave way another few inches. For a moment or two the dark haired elf was simply too shocked to react, but then he managed to free himself of his short paralysis.  
  
"Legolas!"  
  
The wood-elf had had some trouble with a paralysis of his own. When he had watched his two friends fall and disappear from sight, he had been almost sure that his heart would stop instantly. It didn't, however, since he remembered the rope that still secured Elladan to the boulder a few feet away from him, and if there was one thing he knew, it was that there was no way Elladan would allow Aragorn to fall. There was only one small problem, though: The rope wasn't holding. Elladan hadn't had the time to check his knots which were right now coming undone, snapping open one by one with a thoroughly disturbing sound.  
  
Elladan's desperate cry was enough to bring Legolas out of his brief shock. His eyes flew from his still covered legs to the stone and the rope, and with sudden clarity he realised that he had about two seconds before Aragorn and Elladan would fall to their deaths. He hadn't even realised that he was moving when he threw himself forward as much as he could, all his thoughts focused on the rope that was coming loose almost as if in slow motion. For a horrible second Legolas thought he wouldn't be able to reach it, restrained and held back by the stones and earth that still weighed him down, but then, to his never-ending relief, he managed to wrap his fingers around the rope that was right now sliding down the edge of the stone ledge.  
  
Legolas gritted his teeth against the pain as the rope bit into the skin of his hands, and the sudden jolt that ran through him when he suddenly had to support the two other beings' weight was enough to send waves of pain through his entire body. For the first time today he actually thanked the Valar that his lower body was still covered with rubble, because he truly didn't know whether or not he would have been able to brace himself otherwise. Then again, a voice whispered to him in a rather dark manner, it would most likely not make much of a difference. The way he was lying at the moment, half wrapped around the boulder, there was no way he would fall just like that.  
  
"Are you still there?" he asked, barely able to draw enough breath to articulate a single word. It was a stupid question, too. The weight on the other end of the rope was roughly equivalent to that of a small oliphaunt, and so he was rather sure that they were still clinging to the rope.  
  
"For a little while longer, yes," Elladan's pressed voice affirmed.  
  
Legolas smiled a little, but did not have enough breath to laugh.   
"Can you find a foothold?" he answered in barely more than a whisper, inwardly asking himself when Elladan and Aragorn had gained so much weight. They must have raided the kitchens again. "I can hold you a bit longer, but there is no way I can pull you up unless you lose fifty pounds each – instantly."  
  
"Don't worry about that," Elladan assured the other elf, who immediately felt several tugs at the rope as the twin began to drag himself and his human brother up the wall. "We're coming. Just don't move."  
  
"Oh, _that _ won't be a problem," Legolas chuckled breathlessly. "I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Elladan did not answer, since he was thoroughly busy keeping a hold of Aragorn and the rope. The longer he clung to this accursed excuse for a rope the less sure was he that it would hold, and he caught himself more than once imagining the exact sound of it snapping in half. The human he was supporting was not of much help one-handed, and besides, he didn't appear to be truly aware of what was going on. He was clinging to his older brother with all his strength, but there was a cold sweat on his brow and he was pale, almost completely bereft of his usually healthy colour.  
  
The dark haired elf has seen these symptoms often enough to know that there was nothing seriously wrong with his brother – or would be, _if _he managed to get him up onto the ledge, that was. Elladan gritted his teeth and hauled them up another few inches. He would have to talk with Estel about this; what had the man been eating? If he didn't know better, he would think that he had filled his pockets with a few dozen pounds of stones!   
  
It took him a long time to reach the ledge, but finally his fingers closed around the ragged stone edge. A second later both he and Aragorn dragged themselves over the edge and onto the small space, collapsing next to a very white-faced Legolas. For a few moments none of them spoke, and all that could be heard was the sound of their laboured breathing that echoed loudly in the empty space all around them.  
  
It was Legolas who broke the silence first, his hands still wrapped around the makeshift rope. They hurt quite fiercely, for the rope had bitten deeply into the flesh of his palms, and he was by no means certain if he could open his tightly clenched fists even if he wanted to.  
"Where," he began and coughed a little, still breathless, "have you learned to knot, Elladan?"  
  
Elladan didn't answer at once, still draped half over the boulder and half over Aragorn who was lying on his back with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths. A few heartbeats later, he began to chuckle, a sound that soon turned into laughter.  
"An elf from Mithlond taught Elrohir and me when we were elflings," he explained between waves of laughter. "He was part of a delegation that had some kind of talks with _ada_."  
  
Both Aragorn and Legolas frowned, and his brother's words even prompted the man to slowly and carefully open one eye, his left hand wrapped firmly around his injured wrist.  
"I fail to see what is so very funny, Elladan."  
  
If anything, Elladan only laughed harder, some of the stress and fear of the past hour transforming into inexplicable mirth.  
"We … we heard that … he sailed to Valinor some centuries ago," the dark haired elf informed them, as if that explained everything. Aragorn wearily lifted his head and gave Legolas a questioning look, who gave his friend only an equally weary shrug.  
  
In the face of the other two beings' obvious confusion Elladan made a mighty effort to calm himself.  
  
"There were other reasons for his decision, of course, but the crucial factor seemed to be that…" Elladan trailed off and fought another wave of mad giggling. "He … he had fallen off a ship's mast one time too many because his knots wouldn't hold. From what his friends told us later, he couldn't make a knot to save his life."  
  
For a few seconds, neither Aragorn nor Legolas said anything, but then, when they had fully comprehended what Elladan had just said, both of them began to chuckle as well, the absurdity of the dark haired elf's statement chasing away the tension and fear that had lain so heavily over the small ledge.   
  
They needed a long time to compose themselves, and even when Elrohir returned half an hour later with a group of hastily assembled rescuers and several miles of ropes, the three of them were still overcome by sudden waves of rather misplaced mirth. None of the Rivendell Elves made any comment about it, however, and not only because Elrohir was glaring so darkly at them that one or two actually did a double-take to make sure that he was indeed not his father.  
  
It was always unwise to upset elves or men who were so obviously suffering from head wounds, and especially unwise when said elves and men were Lord Elrond's sons and the Prince of Mirkwood.

  
  
Gaerîn let her eyes wander over what she (more often than not) considered to be _her _healing wing, her fierce glare making some of the junior healers jump. Even some of the older and more experienced elves in the room went out of their way to avoid making eye contact, something that amused a small part of her. The larger part, however, was far too annoyed and anxious to really care about such things, even though it calmed down considerably after she had surveyed the room. They were ready – or as ready as they would ever be.   
  
The small red haired healer nodded to herself. They had bandages. They had clean needles, small knives and any other tool they might need. They had herbs and ointments, enough athelas to treat half of Gondor's army and so many splints that Gaerîn suspected that at least three large trees had been cut down. Two of her fellow master healers were here, along with a multitude of junior healers and apprentices. Yes. They were ready. 'Then why,' a soft voice inside her head whispered, 'are you having this horrible feeling of dread?'  
  
Her anxiety seemed to have shown on her face, for when Gelydhiel stepped next to her, a knowing smile spread over the taller she-elf's countenance.  
"You are troubled, cousin?"  
  
It was more a statement than a question, and so Gaerîn only raised a copper eyebrow and looked at her friend with an expression of mock astonishment.  
"Troubled? Me? Why should I be troubled, my friend?" She brushed a strand of dark red hair away from her face with a quick move of her hand which Gelydhiel recognised as a bad sign. "Just answer me one question: Did I miss anything important during the past few centuries? Have the Valar decided to curse our people anew? Has there been another kinslaying and no one thought it important enough to inform me?"  
  
The dark haired healer looked at her friend amusedly.   
"Did you just compare our young lords with the oldest son of Finwë and his heirs?"  
  
"Yes. Why?"  
  
The smile on Gelydhiel's face grew even larger.  
"Don't you think you're … exaggerating a little?"  
  
"No," the other she-elf shook her head without a second's hesitation. "No, I am not exaggerating. I'll admit that most of Fëanor's sons had destroyed at least one major elven settlements when they were their age while they are still trying to ruin Rivendell, but I am willing to give them a little more time."  
  
"I don't really know," the dark haired healer shook her head as well, doubtful. "I rather think that they are trying to get themselves killed than to destroy Imladris. It might just be a side effect – and who knows, maybe there's nothing wrong with them after all."  
  
"'Maybe there's nothing wrong with them'?" Gaerîn arched an unbelieving eyebrow at her so astonishingly positive friend. "You _were _here when Lord Elrohir arrived, weren't you?"  
  
Gelydhiel merely nodded her head, because Gaerîn had a point. No more than an hour or maybe an hour and a half ago said young lord had run through the gates of the Last Homely House, looking as if all of the Nazgûl were on his tail – with their mounts. When he had caught his breath, he had shrugged off all offers of help and had all but taken a handful of guards by their sleeves and dragged them off into the direction of the old ridge.  
  
The dark haired she-elf shook her head, partly amused and partly annoyed. She had never pretended that she understood why males did the things they did, no matter whether they were humans, dwarves, elves or of any other race that existed or was still nothing more than a fleeting thought in Eru Ilúvatar's mind. Not even when she had still be an elfling had she been able to understand just what was so tantalising and exciting about that stupid ridge. Even if the view was wonderful, it certainly wasn't worth breaking your neck, was it? Speaking of which…  
  
"Have you talked with Captain Isál?"  
  
Gaerîn turned away with a sudden movement, and her friend watched with fascination how a faint red colour crept up the smaller elf's face. It didn't happen often that Gaerîn actually blushed, yet another sign that she just might be as smitten with the rather handsome Captain of the Guard as he appeared to be with her.  
  
"No," Gaerîn shook her head in a rather laudable attempt at nonchalance. "No, I haven't, not since he came here four days ago with that broken arm of his." She turned back to her friend, an expression of forced disapproval on her rather red face. "I knew he was tongue-tied, but I never knew he was also clumsy! How old is he, eighteen _yéni_? He behaves like a child!"  
  
"In fact, I think he's closer to nineteen."  
  
"If you are trying to cause my mood to drop to new levels, you are succeeding quite nicely."  
  
Gelydhiel smiled broadly, but before she could retort anything, the doors of the healing wing were thrown open and a mass of people streamed into the brightly lit room, accompanied by enough noise and shouts to deafen even the most battle-hardened warrior. For a moment, both of them were tempted to start moving, but then they saw that Lord Elrond was among the throng of people and instantly relaxed. There was almost no wound, illness or injury that their lord could not heal, that was a belief that was spread far and wide in Rivendell.  
  
Then again, the dark haired healer frowned, this wasn't just anyone they were talking about. These were the Lords Elladan and Estel, _ and _Prince Legolas, who had, if one could believe Lord Elrohir's rather incoherent ramblings, just fallen down into a bottomless pit. She was usually rather cautious about the validity of such statements, but one look at the three beings who didn't as much walk into the room as they were carried was enough to convince her that – at least this time – there just might be a tiny bit of truth in Lord Elrond's son's words.  
  
A tall, dust- and blood-covered elf who was leaning onto one of the guards and looked vaguely like Prince Legolas was right now trying to shake off his helper's hands, but try as he might, he could not free himself of the other's rather firm grip and was steered over to one of the beds.  
"…it wasn't a _bottomless _chasm!" he protested fiercely while he was being pushed over to the left side of the room. "There was a ledge!"  
  
"Quite right!" Estel's voice agreed, even though Gelydhiel couldn't see the young man. A moment later he came into sight, flanked by another guard and Lord Elrond, who looked rather unimpressed by his human son's protests. "It was rather big, too!"  
  
The Lord of Rivendell merely snorted, a rather tired expression on his face while he motioned Elrohir to bring his twin over to one of the other beds. He gave Aragorn's bandage-encircled right forearm a pointed look.  
"It was small enough so that you broke your wrist, _ ion nín_."  
  
"It's not broken," the man shook his head quickly. "Merely … sprained. Or cracked. Or ... something."  
  
The elf who was probably Prince Legolas under all that dust, blood and dirt raised an incredulous eyebrow at the man, a gesture that was mirrored by Elladan who was right now being forcibly pressed down onto a bed by his twin.   
"Or something, Estel. There is no way it is merely sprained. Elladan said so, too."   
  
Lord Elrond briefly let go of his human son's arm and turned to give the wood-elf a dark look.  
"That is enough, young prince," he glared at the younger elf before he turned an equally dark look on Aragorn and his twin sons, his patience obviously spent. "All of you will be quiet and do what you're told, or I swear by my father's star that I will have you taken back up that accursed ridge and dropped into the fissure! Do you understand?"  
  
He barely waited long enough for them to give him chagrined nods and turned back around, shooting a still rather dark and impatient look at the healers that were gathered at the far end of the room.  
"My lords and ladies? Would you care to join us?"  
  
A multitude of voices muttered softly "Yes, my lord" and "Surely, my lord" as the elves began to move, some of them hurrying over to their patients and some gathering supplies, but before Gaerîn could move off into the direction where Estel was sitting, Gelydhiel's hand grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back.  
"Where do you think you're going, _gwathel nín_?"   
  
The red haired healer gave her friend a puzzled look.   
"To help Lord Estel, of course. If his wrist truly is broken…"  
  
She trailed off, not needing to say more. For inexperienced people it was hard to tell whether or not bones were broken, not to mention to set them correctly if they indeed were, even for the Eldar. A keen sense of touch and long experience were needed to feel fractures through muscles and skin of a patient, and there was no one in Rivendell except Lord Elrond himself who possessed both qualities to quite the same degree as Gaerîn.  
  
Under normal circumstances, Gelydhiel would have nodded in acquiescence, but now she merely smiled rather slyly and turned her astonished friend around, into the direction of Prince Legolas' bed.  
"He will be fine; Lord Elrond is looking after him. You," she pushed the smaller elf forward to emphasise her point, "will go and help the prince."  
  
The red haired healer turned back to the other she-elf, confusion plain to see on her face, but before she could say anything Gelydhiel had pushed her forward another few inches. The smaller elf stumbled a little and was steadied by a junior healer who was carrying a pile of bandages, and before she knew what was happening she was being pulled over to the Silvan Elf's side.   
  
Gelydhiel grinned as she watched her friend blush for the second time in less than a quarter-hour, for Gaerîn quickly saw why she had been urged to come here: Behind the still protesting wood-elf stood Captain Isál, one of his arms in a sling and his eyes fixed on Gaerîn's face. For a moment it seemed as if the dark haired warrior would fall back into his usual behaviour – namely going red in the face and muttering nonsense – but then he actually swallowed and spoke some words that seemed to be a greeting.  
  
Gaerîn retorted something in a voice too low for her friend to overhear over the hustle and bustle in the room, but it seemed to have met with the young captain's approval, for a large smile spread over his face, quickly followed by the inevitable blush. Isál didn't retort anything, probably once again dumbstruck by the red haired healer's grace and kindness which she displayed while she sternly commanded the fidgeting wood-elf in front of her to sit still and let her examine him.  
  
Gelydhiel smiled, picked up a large bowl of tepid water which one of the apprentices had filled some minutes ago and cautiously carried it over to where Lord Elladan was right now being berated by his rather bruised twin.   
  
By the grace of the Valar some good would come of this, after all.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...**

  
  
  
  
  
_gwanur nín (S.) - my (twin) brother  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
ion nín (S.) - my son  
gwathel nín (S.) - my (sworn) sister, •cousin  
  
  
  
  
_**See, they're alive. •shakes head• It's not that much of a surprise, now is it? You know I like them too much to just kill them off after a few chapters... •evil grin• Alright, so the next chapter will be here in another week. Elvynd and Erestor have a little talk about Aberon and its hospitable inhabitants and Legolas is NOT a happy elf. •shakes head again• Who can blame him, really? Reviews are always greatly appreciated and help to get my evil alter ego to update on time. Yes, she's responsible for all my faults and mistakes. •g•  
  
  
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**Additional A/N:  
  
HarryEstel** - How do you know? •suspicious look• I'm sure I never told anyone about my evil plans... •g• Indeed, my muse is trying to drive all of you insane. I'm mad already, so I don't really mind... •g• LOL, I have to admit that your threat is most fearsome. Mercy! Here is the next bit!  
**Deana** - •innocently• You don't really have to beg so much. You know me, I'm a sensible, reasonable person. I ALWAYS update on time. •thinks• Well, maybe not •always•. But rather often. •g•  
**Red Tigress** - See? I KNEW you would miss the cliffies. They're such nice, innocents little things... •evil grin• We need more of them, yes we do. •g• LOL, your little mental image is indeed very amusing. They're just not tumbling down a hillside. Not really. •cackles evilly•  
**Nikara** - LOL, yes, you're right. Always look on the bright side - he could have fallen OFF the cliff instead of INTO it, couldn't he? A very interesting way to see it, and a very important difference, I agree. •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - Thanks; so it's your fault. Good to know. Now that you mention it, I have to check up on Celylith. I kind of forgot to feed him now that I think about it... •g• And I didn't really leave you in a hole. I left you on a hillside. I left THEM in a hole. That's a difference. •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - I know exactly what you mean. My printer does it all the time! The thing is that it's a really expensive one and that it's not supposed to do things like that! •gr• LOL, so you liked the cliffy, yes? Really? That's great. I was having so much fun writing it. The next one won't be here till chapter 8 or 9, so you'll have to wait for a little while. •g• And don't think you're getting off so easily. I wrote the cliffies in AEFAE because I KNEW you were out there. •nods• Oh yes.  
**Barbara Kennedy** - Hmm, it all depends on how you define "hurt". If you employ Glorfindel's definition for "alright", namely "alive and not seriously damaged", then no, they're not hurt. Not really, anyway. •evil grin• And it's not really a cave. It's more a ... bottomless chasm. Yes, I think that's the appropriate term. •g•  
**Grumpy** - Yes, I managed to convince the earth to swallow them up. It wasn't really that hard; it was sick of them bleeding on it all the time... •g• LOL, I can just imagine Elrohir flapping around like a big, panicking mother hen. •grin widely• Would be really entertaining...  
**Radbooks** - •blushes• Well, thank you! I'm still a little nervous, though. It's like seeing policemen on the street. You know you haven't done anything wrong, but you still feel slightly guilty. I do, anyway. •shrugs• I really need professional help, I think. I have to admit that I was having serious problems with my action sequences in the beginning, too. You're right, it really gets easier. I even enjoy them now, even though I am really trying to keep smart remarks out of them. •frowns• I can't, though. It's really sad, but the characters just won't shut up! And why would you want to keep Erestor in Rivendell? You don't really think anything will happen to him, do you? •evil grin•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - Hmm, what kind of person keeps track of who eats what for breakfast? I would guess an immortal with way too much time on his hands... •g• But I think Glorfindel already has a hobby. It's called "Erestor-baiting". It's very nice, really, you should try it! •g• Then again, I guess it's a tiny bit dangerous... •gives scowling Erestor a quick look• Yup, VERY dangerous. •g•  
**Crippled Raven** - So, YOU're "Dead Girl Snoozing"? Don't do that, you're really confusing me! I have to tell you that you were signed in, though. Now I know your real name though! Mhahahaha! Uhm, yeah, whatever. The exam was about the Teutonic Knights in Prussia in the 13./14. century. I would never have agreed to it, but they camouflaged the seminar with the title "Crusade and Colonisation" or something like that. I thought they meant THE crusades, stupid me. So it CAN be interesting, but I really don't like Medieval History all that much, regardless the topic. I would go for the modern dictators. But that's just me. •threatening glare• Don't you even think about an "Save Erestor Foundation". I have more than enough trouble with the CLF, thanks a lot. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - •sheepishly• Well, sorry about that. I didn't know Cassia had a cliffy, too ... but what the heck, even if I had, I would still have posted this one. I'm evil, and I have that horrible alter ego who would have been seriously displeased otherwise... •g• LOL, so someone else used "Geran"? That's really scary, even though "Teonvan" would have been worse. And you're right of course, I can't kill Erestor or Glorfindel - but there are lots of others! Mhahaha!  
**Elvendancer** - My God! You're REALLY not throwing ANYTHING? •shakes head• Sorry, I need some time to process that... •some hours later• Wow, it has finally registered in my brain. Thank you! •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Yes, I know, I know. I fought very hard to resist the temptation, but in the end it was too much for me. I'm so sorry; I dishonoured the "Cliffhanger Authors Anonymous"! •wails• Well, but we can just blame my alter ego. All her fault. •g• I can't tell you anything about the bats, because I am right now wondering whether to put them in at all. IF I do, however, they won't be here till at least chapter 20 or something like that. Sorry. And I never said they had anything to do with Erestor! In fact, I'm rather sure that they don't. Won't. Whatever. •g•  
**Alilacia** - The exam was about Medieval History. I am SO glad it's finally over. I hate Medieval History. •grimaces• Just how do you know that Erestor will not be alright? Was it the dark cloud of doom hanging over his head? Damn, I really should have made that a little less obvious... •g• I like the spider's web, though. Unfortunately they all live in Mirkwood/Mordor. •frowns• So, no spider's web. I'm using something far less credible... •g•  
**Smile Neumann** - •g• Glad you managed to catch up. It can get confusing sometimes. And you're not supposed to like the bad guys! They're bad! Evil! Villainous! They're not particularly likable! •shakes head• Don't tell me you liked Teonvan. LOL, your guess is a very good one, too. Really. •g•  
**Marbienl** - First of all: Thanks for that link! I laughed for at least five minutes! Very funny... •is still grinning• And I never said I would hurt Erestor. You ASSUMED I would. I never said that, did I? •evil grin• I have to admit, however, that I don't have any idea about Erestor's past. I am somewhat hesitant to make something up. I mean, we know he's a Noldo, but that's about it. That leaves a lot of options... I don't know if I'll "give" him a past at all. Perhaps I'll just be vague and change the topic. •g• Oh, and Salir won't be a Nólad/Cendan type. I'm not yet sure what type he is, but he isn't that. Does that make sense? •g• I'm not sure about Arwen either. I will have to bring her into this soon, perhaps at the end of the next story, since I'll definitely follow the book. I hated the movies in that regard, I really, really hated them.  
**Just Jordy - **Aw, come on, cliffies aren't that bad! They can be quite funny! If you're writing them, that is... •g• But thanks for your kind words. It's nice to hear that you liked it so much. •g•  
**Sadie Elfgirl** - I really must protest! It wasn't "heinous" or anything of the like! It was a nice little cliffy! •g• LOL, my stories are of the "War and Peace" length? Wow, THAT is a compliment, even though it's not really true. The last one was only 750 pages or so, that's not really that long. Glorfindel, however, usually tries to scare Erestor, I guess. It's rather childish or immature, but he IS a very merry elf. •g• And I loved the workshop for the baddies! A very good idea! •g•  
**Tychen** - LOL, just you wait. The real "cliffhanger" is in this chapter! •evil grin• You might be right though, after what Aragorn has already been through, facing Sauron must look like a walk in the park... •g• I think it's safe to say that, eventually, most of our intrepid heroes, including Erestor, will meet Captain Gasur and his merry men. What kind of story would it be without your resident psychopath? •g• You're right about the hole, though. You're psychic, right?  
**Ventinari **- Ha! A new one! Hey guys! We have a new one over here! •g• Welcome! It's always nice to have a new member who appreciates insanity and weird humour... •g• I have to tell you though, I have been called many things in my life (including sadistic, evil witch), but never before have I been referred to as "The straw that broke the camel's back". I am flattered, thanks! •g• It's nice to hear that you're enjoying "my" Erestor so much, but I really hope you haven't been waiting too long for him to make an appearance. I take requests, you know? If you want a certain scene or character to appear, just tell me and I'll see what I can do. If it's not interfering with the plot and/or the credibility of the story, I don't really mind. Even though I have to admit that I don't really understand what kind of scene you were talking about? I'm a little slow sometimes, don't tell me. •g• Anyway, thanks a lot for your review! It's greatly appreciated!  
**Viggomaniac** - LOL, yes, Erestor's going to ignore the Evil Warnings of Imminent Doom radiating from Glorfindel. He's a little stupid, as are all of them. •g• I can't really tell you about Gasur, not because I don't want to, but rather because I don't really know yet. Things like that usually develop with the story, so you'll have to wait and see. Sorry. •g• And no, they won't up in Wonderland, even though it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. It really is quite time-consuming to do the review responses, but it's really worth it. I love 'talking' with you guys, and I even get lots of interesting ideas this way. Don't worry about the "two thousand" thing. FF-net always does that. Please don't ask me why, I guess it's to annoy us to no end. They're succeeding, aren't they? •dark look at FF-net• And I know that story you're talking about! I read it when it was posted and laughed about twenty minutes. I hate these mistakes! And I don't think you're daft, btw. Insane, maybe, but not daft.  
**Elvingirl3737** - •sighs in relief• Thanks. I'm glad you've decided to forgive me. I'll try not to let it happen again. •g• Elrohir always seems to be a kind of mediator, poor elf. With the two of them, it's most certainly not an easy task. •g• And I thought so, too! A collapsing hillside is just what they need! •evil grin•  
**Snow-Glory** - Yes, one of these days Aragorn will really get all of them killed. I don't think anyone would be very surprised about it, either. •g• And Legolas was a very intelligent elf to have kept silent, wasn't he? If there is one thing you shouldn't do, it is to get involved in one of their argument. •g•  
**Zinnith** - I know exactly what you mean. It has happened to me quite often lately, and most of the time I end of not reviewing at all since I don't want to write all of it again. •g• Thanks for being nicer than me! I have to agree though: Doom is a wonderful word. I can really understand Elrond's affinity for it. •g• LOL, you're right, what would Gandalf do with his staff? A very good question indeed... It would have been funny if Aragorn weren't injured this time, but it's too late for it now. You have just given me an evil plot bunny, though. I think I will follow your example and make plot bunny-stew! Yummy! •g•  
**Elitenschwein** - Zuerst einmal: Ich liebe den Namen. Ich hab' sicher fuer fuenf Minuten gegrinst, als ich das gesehen habe. Sehr nett. •g• Ist sehr schoen, mal einen neuen Reviewer begruessen zu koennen! •rot werd• Und was fuer einen netten Reviewer! Vielen Dank fuer deine netten Komplimente! Es ist natuerlich toll zu hoeren, dass du meine kleinen seltsamen Geschichten gerne magst. Das mit dem Ausdrucken ist sehr mutig - mein Drucker wuerde da ganz schnell den Geist aufgeben, auch mit zwei Seiten auf einer Seite und beidseitig bedruckt. •g• Und natuerlich habe ich ein Rotationssystem! Ich habe eine grosse Tafel in meinem Zimmer mit der Ueberschrift "Victim of the day". Gerechtigkeit muss sein! Ich habe auch immer ein bisschen Angst, wenn ich einen weiblichen Charakter schreibe. Wer weiss schon, ob sie zu Mary-Sues mutieren? Man kann da nie zu vorsichtig sein... •g• Und Aragorn pain, angst etc. ist wirklich im naechsten Kapitel! Woher WUSSTEST du das denn nur? •schuettelt Kopf• Sehr seltsam. Noch mal vielen Dank fuer die Review! •knuddel•  
**Mystic Girl1** - Und das ist auch gut so! Verschwinden, ohne die Meinung zu sagen ist gar nicht nett! •g• Pruefer denken ja bekanntlich immer, dass man nichts besseres zu tun hat, als fuer genau ihren Kurs zu lernen. War schon immer so und wird wahrscheinlich auch immer so bleiben. •g• Ist doch schoen zu hoeren, dass du dich nicht aufregen moechtest. War ja auch kein Cliffy, nech? •fieses Grinsen• Wohin gehst du am Mittwoch? Auf 'ne Convention? Doch nicht wirklich, oder?  
  
**Most of the reponses were a bit on the short side. I'm sorry about that, but I'm a little bit in a hurry. I hope you're not too cross. •innocent smile•**


	7. Second Thoughts

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:**  
  
**LOL, I don't even want to imagine what kind of children Girion and Acalith would have had. It's a truly scary thought... •g• But no, you may not kill one of the bad guys. Not even Salir. I need all of them! It would be really boring if I'd let you kill them now, trust me. •evil grin•  
  
The ridge, however, will play a small role yet. Nothing too big, but I did have a reason for letting them fall into this particular hole, even though I have to admit that it was mainly to get my evil alter ego to shut up. •g• She's better now, though. That might be connected to that one scene I'm right now writing in chapter 10, but... •trails off• I'm evil. Don't tell me.  
  
  
Alright, in order not to displease the Powers That Be I will shut up now. •waits for a moment for anyone to cheer• Well done. You're learning. •g• So, what do we have... A little conversation between Elvynd and Erestor who both come to the conclusion that something might not be right (Duh!) and another one between Legolas and Elrohir, in which we find out just why Legolas is not a happy elf. He's in this fic, for one. •g•  
  
Enjoy and review, please!  
  
  
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Chapter 7  
  
  
He had never realised it before, but poking a fire with a stick could be quite amusing.  
  
Elvynd cocked his head to the side, his eyes not leaving the flickering flames in front of him. That had been a thought worthier of Isál than of himself, at least that was what he allowed himself to believe. Isál had always been the stranger and more impulsive of the two of them, while he himself was a mature, sensible elf. A small part of his mind started laughing uproariously at that, and he did his best to ignore it. Then again, maybe Isál had rubbed off on him over the past 2000-odd years. It would explain quite a few things now that he thought about it.  
  
With a small sigh the dark haired elf abandoned that trail of thought and returned to his earlier occupation, namely poking their campfire with a stick he had found next to him. The stick was now considerably shorter than it once had been since he had been using it for quite some time and it had therefore burned bit by bit, but it was still usable.  
  
Another part of the stick turned into ash in a small cloud of smoke, and Elvynd gave another soft sigh. He didn't want to be here. He really, _really _didn't want to be here. It wasn't that he didn't like his men – he did – or that he didn't like Lord Erestor – surprisingly, he did, too – but he liked Isál a lot more. And the thought of his love-struck friend alone in Imladris with no one but his lord's sons and Prince Legolas for company was … distressing.  
  
Other people would have called it terrifying, he mused silently. There was no telling what that reckless excuse for an elf would do, especially with the twins, Estel and that wood-elf whispering ideas in his ear. Elvynd shuddered almost imperceptibly. Why o why had he left in the first place? He could have told Lord Elrond that he was busy, or that he had forgotten everything he had ever known about Aberon, or…  
  
"I do not think this bodes well for any of us," a voice next to him commented softly. "And as unhappy as I am to tell you this, poking the fire won't hurt it at all, but it _will _hurt the stick."  
  
Elvynd did his best not to let his surprise show, but was still not overly alarmed. He hadn't lived this long by letting down his guard in unknown territory, not even when you had posted guards and were sure you hadn't seen any sign of another sentient being in the past two days. He knew perfectly well that the only person who could have said these words was Lord Erestor, and yet the dark haired advisor had managed to surprise him. He was good at that.   
  
After what he judged to be a suitable amount of time the young captain turned to the side and gave the even-faced elf next to him something he hoped was a calm look.  
"Forgive me, my lord?"  
  
"Your habit of prodding a few perfectly innocent flames is rather disconcerting, Captain." Elvynd wasn't completely sure about it, but in the dim light the campfire cast over the other's features it looked as if a smile was lurking in his eyes. "I would be careful if I were you," Erestor added. "They might poke back."  
  
Elvynd blinked. Lord Erestor was spending far too much time with Lord Glorfindel.  
"Indeed they might, sir."  
  
For a few moments, it appeared as if the younger elf wanted to say more, but then he returned his attention to the fire without saying another word. There was really nothing he _could _say, for he could hardly ask Lord Erestor whether or not he was beginning to go insane or tell him that he really wished he had stayed at home because he feared his best friend would get himself killed to impress a rather aloof elf maid.  
  
The other elf narrowed his eyes slightly, even though it was so small a movement that even an observant person might have missed it. No matter how much he wanted to deny it to himself, he was beginning to believe that maybe, just _maybe_ of course, Elrond and Glorfindel could have been right. He had been on many missions in the past, and quite a large percentage had seemed much more dangerous than this one from the very beginning, and he had therefore developed rather keen instincts. And said keen instincts were slowly but surely beginning to tell him that something was wrong. And they hadn't even arrived yet!  
  
Erestor let his gaze wander over their surroundings, his eyes piercing the darkness without too much trouble even though his vision was slightly impaired by the bright campfire in front of him. The two guards the captain had set were not visible – not even for him who knew where to look – something that spoke for their experience and skill. The other three members of their party had left half an hour ago when the sun had just been setting, intent on finding something to eat that wasn't lembas or dried fruit and meat. These lands weren't particularly dangerous, but he knew that a captain whom Glorfindel held in such high esteem would have warned his men not to wander off too far. One could never know what one encountered, even though none of them had seen an orc or anything else that could be construed dangerous in any way.  
  
Next to him, Elvynd threw the remains of his stick into the fire and turned slightly to give the other elf a somewhat hesitant smile.   
"Do not worry, my lord," he told Erestor, unconsciously echoing his earlier thoughts. "They will be back soon. They know better than to wander off at night."  
  
"I am sure they do," Erestor nodded without hesitation.   
  
"I just hope they really managed to shoot a rabbit or two, even though it shouldn't be too hard at this time of day," Elvynd added thoughtfully. "I think Cuilthen will go insane if he doesn't get to eat something else than lembas soon."  
  
Erestor smiled thinly and bowed his head in agreement. Cuilthen was the youngest member of their troop, not older than a few centuries, and he was the first elf Erestor had ever seen who loathed the elvish waybread. There were quite a few who weren't fond of it, especially when it was the only thing to eat for a prolonged amount of time, but there were things a lot worse. The Lake-men's cram, for example, he thought with an inward shudder.  
  
"You might be right, Captain. He has been looking rather hungry for some time now. Yet," Erestor added, his eyes once again returning to the younger elf's face, "that wasn't what I was thinking about, Captain."  
  
"It wasn't?" Elvynd asked emotionlessly, cursing himself for letting his unease show. Then again, it was Lord Erestor he was talking about, an elf who was rumoured to be able to read a dragon's facial expression as easily as other people read a children's book.  
  
"Indeed not," Erestor retorted with a small, smug nod of his head.  
  
Oh yes, Elvynd thought darkly. Lord Erestor was really spending too much time with Lord Glorfindel – he was beginning to adopt far too many of his mannerisms. When it became apparent that the older elf wasn't about to say anything, Elvynd sighed softly and gave in.  
  
"Alright, my lord. What were you thinking about?"  
  
"You," the other said bluntly. "What is it that worries you, young one?"  
  
Elvynd wasn't too surprised by Erestor's words, and yet he didn't answer immediately. There was a very simple reason for his hesitation, a reason that surprised even himself as it became clear to him: A part of him was worried about Isál and what kind of trouble his reckless friend would get himself into, true enough, but another part of him was simply … worried. Uneasy. Troubled. Anxious. Or a mixture of all the above, and he honestly had no idea why.  
  
"I don't rightly know, my lord," he finally said slowly. "Something just feels … not right." He raised his head and shrugged helplessly. "I have been here a lot of times, the last time less than six years ago, and nothing looks any different. The landscape has changed a little, yes, but nothing too remarkable."  
  
Erestor looked seriously at the younger elf, knowing that it would be a mistake to simply dismiss his misgivings – they were his own, after all. There was something just waiting outside the range of his senses, and having Elvynd affirm what he himself felt was rather comforting, in a strange sort of way. In a more practical sort of way, however, it was close to ominous.   
  
"Tell me about Aberon," Erestor finally said quietly, partly to take the young captain's thoughts off his unease. "I have never been there."   
  
The dark haired captain thought for a few moments before he answered, apparently not too sure where to begin.  
  
"It's a rather small town," he began carefully. "It is growing though, quite remarkably so even. In the past few decades the inhabitants have almost doubled, both because families travel there to join the township and because the surrounding lands are very fertile. The trade has increased in recent years, too, both with the salt they are getting from the saline close to the town and with the goods that are coming through their town from the south. Aberon itself is located on the plains south of the confluence of the two rivers. There are still a few hills there, however, but most of them are not very steep."  
  
"On which river's side is the town?" Erestor asked, trying to picture what the other elf was telling him.  
  
"On the Bruinen's, my lord," Elvynd answered. He looked around for the stick he had used earlier, seemed to realise that he had thrown it into the fire and quickly took up a new one to scratch a crude map into the moist earth between them. "This is the Bruinen," he began, drawing a thin line into the ground that ran from top right to bottom left. "And this is the Mitheithel." He added another, more or less straight line that met the other one, joining it. He scratched a little until the lower part of the first line was considerably thicker than its two separate arms. "And here, where the Bruinen joins the Mitheithel," he added, pointing his stick at a small spot right below the point where the Bruinen joined the Greyflood, "is Aberon, close to the ford."  
  
Erestor nodded, his eyes not leaving the crude drawing. He had consulted their maps before they had left Rivendell as every sensible elf would have done (except maybe Glorfindel, who seemed to enjoy stumbling through the countryside without a clear idea where he was going since it was so much more "adventurous"), but some of them were somewhat sketchy. The one map that had been relatively new – that is, newer than two or three _yéni _– had been annoyingly vague about most of the regions south of the South Downs.  
  
"Is there another ford?" he asked. It was common for human settlements to be located close to fords or passes or any other advantageous spots, and if it was in fact the only crossing, it might explain the problems Aberon was having with its neighbours.  
  
"No, not that I know of," Elvynd shook his head and thoughtfully drew a short furrow across the line that was representing the Hoarwell, close to the small cross that was Aberon. "Not for at least fifty miles. In fact, I believe it is one of the two truly usable fords north of Tharbad, at least for people who are travelling with heavy carts."  
  
"That won't make anything easier," the dark haired advisor murmured softly.  
  
"No, my lord, most probably not," Elvynd agreed with a small smile. "The Mitheithel is broad there, and its current is swift and treacherous. To cross it anywhere but close to Aberon is either a rare act of foolishness or megalomania."  
  
"Then you shouldn't repeat what you just told me in front of the twins or Estel," Erestor advised the other elf wryly. "They might regard it as a kind of invitation or challenge."  
  
"They might, my lord," Elvynd inclined his head, another small stab of dread running through him at that thought. They might indeed regard that as a challenge, and in the state Isál was in at the moment, he would jump into that stupid river without even thinking twice.  
  
Erestor nodded as well, noticing that his attempt to lighten the mood had failed.  
"Tell me more about the town's leaders, then. They have a town council, I presume?"  
  
"Yes, a council of elders," the younger elf affirmed. "I think there are five or six of them, but that might have changed. I do not remember any of them specifically, but there was one man everyone expected to be elected councilman in due time. His name is Hurag, and he is one of the most antagonistic, hostile and distrustful beings I have ever met. He could in fact give a paranoid dwarf a run for his money, at least in my opinion! It is very well possible that he is on the council now, and even if he is not it matters little. He had enough influence back when I last saw him, and that will not have changed."  
  
"He is one of the traders who had dealings with us in the past though, is he not?"  
  
"Aye, my lord, he is," Elvynd nodded. "Surprisingly and also unfortunately." He shrugged at Erestor's questioning look. "As I said, he is highly antagonistic and does not trust us."  
  
"'Us'?" the dark haired councilman repeated with a quirked eyebrow. "Us as in the Elves or us as in outsiders?"  
  
"Yes," Elvynd smiled thinly.  
  
"I see."  
  
"There is good news, though, at least I think you could call it good news," the captain hurried to add, seeing the frown that was slowly spreading over the other elf's face. "The third master of the trader's guild's council is a reasonable man."  
  
"'The third master of the trader's guild's council'?" Erestor repeated, slightly confused.  
  
"The guilds in Aberon are led by councils, even thought they are not always called like that," Elvynd explained. "The trader's guild's council is relatively small, for there are only three master traders who are considered experienced, shrewd and intelligent. One of them is Hurag, the second is an old man who everyone has been expecting to die for years and whose opinion usually matters little if he ever goes to the trouble of reaching one, and a man named Toran. He is a reasonable man, most certainly more reasonable than Hurag and his supporters."  
  
"Exactly how reasonable is 'more reasonable than Hurag'?" Erestor asked with what could have been called a tiny smile.  
  
The forced optimism on Elvynd's face seemed to evaporate as quickly as snow in the sun.  
"Not very, my lord," he admitted softly. "He realises that a good part of the town's prosperity is owed to trade, a large part of which is being conducted with us, but that's about it I'm afraid. I believe he is firmly convinced that no elf can be trusted to tell the truth."  
  
"He's suspicious of us?"  
  
"Very, my lord."  
  
"Is there anyone in that charming town who doesn't believe us to be devious, villainous, cannibalistic scoundrels who practice dark magic and would rather cut their own mothers' throats than to tell anyone the truth, let alone aid them?" Erestor asked, exasperated.  
  
Elvynd seemed to think about that for a moment before he slowly nodded his head.  
"There might be, my lord. I believe I saw a rather benevolent kitten there. Only once though, and it has been several years. We might be lucky though. It might have procreated."  
  
"But you're not sure," Erestor stated deadpan.  
  
"No, sir," the captain smiled broadly. "I'm not sure."   
  
"So, essentially, they hate us and would rather coddle a rabid dog than treat us like normal people," Erestor summarised the other elf's words.  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
"And _they _are our trade partners and the closest thing we have to allies in this part of Eriador, so their neighbouring town will probably be even less inviting," Erestor added darkly.  
  
"Yes, my lord."  
  
"Glorfindel would love this," Erestor muttered to himself. "Almost insurmountable odds, a hostile population and nearly certain failure. Such a challenge would definitely tickle his 'sense of adventure' or whatever he likes to call it."  
  
Elvynd was too experienced and discreet to comment on the dark haired advisor's softly spoken remark, doing a rather credible impression of someone who was deeply immersed in watching the flames of the campfire. Before he had had to figure out what to say without sounding either stupid or insolent – he could hardly tell Lord Erestor that he thought him to be absolutely right since everyone, and most of all his captains, knew Lord Glorfindel to be highly strange at times – the sound of approaching elves could be heard, and a few moments later three warriors appeared at the edges of the light that their small campfire cast.  
  
Elvynd returned the others' greetings with more than a little bit of relief, and grinned openly at the young, dark haired elf who held up a couple of dead rabbits like a trophy.  
"Mission accomplished, Cuilthen?"  
  
The young elf grinned and nodded, all but waving around the animals in triumph.  
"Mission accomplished, sir."  
  
"Did you see anything or meet anyone?" Erestor interrupted them.  
  
"At this time of night, my lord?" another warrior asked, giving his comrades a confused glance. It was most certainly a very strange thing to ask, but Lord Erestor surely had a reason for his question. No matter how strange it sounded, Lord Elrond's chief advisor always had a reason – and most of the time a very good reason, too – for everything he did.   
  
"No, my lord," he finally added with a small shrug. "We didn't see anything or meet anyone, and neither had the guards when we passed them a while ago." He frowned, apparently growing more confused by the minute. "Was there anyone we should have met, my lord?"  
  
"No, do not worry," Erestor shook his head, conveying quite clearly that the matter was closed. "It was just a thought."  
  
The three warriors accepted this with identical bows of their heads, and soon the three of them were busy skinning and preparing the rabbits for a rather late dinner. In a matter of minutes the elves had prepared the animals with skilled, practiced movements, and the rabbits were stuck on a long, wooden poker one of them was placing over the fire with an expectant expression on his face.  
  
Such an expression, however, could be found neither on Elvynd's nor on Erestor's face. Erestor looked as emotionless and even-faced as always while the dark haired captain looked thoughtful more than anything else, even though a person who knew him well would have seen the underlying worry he was trying so hard to hide.  
  
Lord Erestor did not say or ask things without good reasons. If he told you that he'd had "just a thought", it was a bold-faced, shameless lie, for the advisor didn't "just" have thoughts, at least not as far as Elvynd knew.  
  
He was worried, Elvynd realised with a far more urgent stab of dread than the one that had run through him when he had thought of Isál. They hadn't even arrived yet and Lord Erestor was already worried, a feeling that could also be found in his own heart.  
  
He really needn't be a prophet or seer to realise what that meant.

  
  
Legolas was not a happy elf.  
  
In fact, he added darkly, he hadn't been a happy elf since he had fallen into an all but bottomless chasm yesterday, had got buried under a ton of stone and earth, had watched two of his best friends almost die and had then been used as a pincushion by a horde of healers.  
  
The fair haired elf growled inwardly and scowled at a thoroughly innocent thrush that seemed to have left its nest outside Aragorn's balcony to visit his for a change. The bird gave the frowning elf a quick look and fluttered away, something that was not really necessary. Legolas wasn't so annoyed that he would have actually harmed the thrush, but he might have continued glaring at it.  
  
He really didn't understand it, Legolas thought darkly to himself while he contemplated whether or not he should put his feet on the stool standing in front of him. He decided against it and shook his head slightly. Sometimes it seemed to him that even casual acquaintanceship or sporadic contact with Aragorn doomed you to each and every healer's eternal enmity and hostility. As soon as they found out that were the ranger's friend, their first and foremost goal seemed to be to chain you to a bed and set a twenty-four-hour watch on you.  
  
The wood-elf's expression became even darker. The healers had prodded him, they had insisted on sewing every insignificant gash he had sustained in the fall and had wrapped about a mile of bandages around his torso after about three-quarters of Rivendell's healers, including Elrohir and Lord Elrond, had insisted on digging their fingers into every bruise and abrasion on his chest. With identical expressions of satisfaction and glee on their faces they had finally announced that he had badly bruised most of his ribs – something he had known for a long time, mind you – and had then turned their attention to the bump on his head.  
  
He had been trying to tell them that no, he didn't see double or felt overly nauseous or dizzy, but they hadn't even been listening. They had simply looked at him with the expression of people who were humouring a pathological liar and had wrapped the longest bandage he had ever seen around his head, and the whole thing had ended with him being all but dragged to his room and force-fed something foul-tasting that had sent him to sleep for fifteen hours.  
  
When he had finally awoken from his drug-induced slumber, he had been ordered by a rather annoyed-looking healer to stay in his bed and not move for at least a day. That, of course, was an order he had not heeded. After fifteen minutes, when he had concluded that he couldn't go back to sleep, he had become bored. He had nothing to do, he hadn't seen Aragorn or Elladan since yesterday afternoon and the healer wouldn't tell him how they were. Half an hour later he had been dressed and had tried to leave his room, only to quickly step back over the threshold only half a minute after he had first crossed it.   
  
He hated Lord Elrond, Legolas decided with far more conviction than he could have gathered yesterday morning. He suspected that Elrohir and the Lord of Rivendell themselves were making sure that Aragorn and Elladan weren't leaving their rooms, and so the half-elf had obviously decided that there was only one healer who could actually put up with him: Gaerîn.  
  
Now he understood only too well why Aragorn and his brothers had dubbed the delicate, red haired healer "Scourge of Our Existence". She was that and more, and she was also the first she-elf he had ever known who used dwarven swearwords that had nearly made even him blush. After twenty seconds he had realised how utterly pointless arguing with the fierce healer was, and so here he was, sitting on his balcony on the most comfortable chair he had been able to find and staring darkly at perfectly innocent birds.  
  
And the worst, the very, very worst thing about all this was that Gaerîn and her accomplices were right about everything, something he positively loathed to admit even to himself.  
  
He felt awful. His ribs were a single huge, discoloured bruise that was dotted generously with small and large cuts and abrasions. Every breath he took made him wince, and every movement was enough to nearly make tears well up in his eyes. His palms were bandaged where sharp rocks and the rope had bitten into the flesh, and even the simplest action was annoyingly painful. If he moved too quickly, his skull throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, and his brain seemed to be on its own, personal mission, namely doing everything in its power to part company with the rest of his body and squeeze out of his skull via his ears.  
  
He wasn't perfectly sure about it, of course, but he actually thought that he felt worse than that time a few years ago when Aragorn and he had had a little run-in with a group of trolls who had decided that the two of them would be a tasty dinner. Legolas shifted in his seat and swore softly at the pain that stabbed through him at the small movement. No, he was _ definitely _feeling worse, there was no doubt about it.  
  
The fair haired elf was so concentrated on loudly cursing whichever Vala was responsible for their combined misfortune that he didn't hear the soft footsteps that drew closer and finally stopped behind him, and so he was rather surprised when a voice spoke up behind his left shoulder, sounding very amused.  
  
"Having a bad day, huh?"  
  
Legolas hid his surprise and merely turned carefully around to give the dark haired, smugly grinning elf who had so abruptly disrupted his soliloquy a dark glare.  
"Oh, you have _no _idea."  
  
Elrohir shrugged soundlessly, his eyes wandering over Legolas' form in an obvious attempt to figure out whether or not it would be safe to join the wood-elf on the balcony. He finally seemed to come to a favourable decision and carefully took a step forward, stepping over the threshold and onto the small platform. When Legolas didn't do anything but glare darkly at him, he took a few more steps, and half a second later he was sitting on the railing in front of Legolas, idly swinging his legs back and forth and smiling innocently at the other elf.  
  
"So," he finally began when Legolas showed no inclination to start speaking, "How are you feeling this fine day?"  
  
The Silvan elf gave the grey sky that mirrored his mood perfectly a long look before he turned his attention onto the other elf.   
"What are you talking about? It is a horrible day!"   
  
"That depends on your point of view," the younger twin grinned in a manner that could have been called downright self-satisfied. "You and my insufferable brothers are confined to your quarters, _ada_ is only waiting for you to step out of line so that he can rip out your throats and is for once not after me. It's a wonderful day!"  
  
Legolas muttered a soft curse that Elrohir couldn't quite catch, even though he was reasonably certain that it contained the words "pain", "doom" and "ill-tempered balrog". He ignored the rather obvious implications and leaned forward a bit, peering intently into the other's face.  
"You did not answer my question, _mellon nín_. How are you feeling?"  
  
For a second, Legolas seriously considered pushing Elrohir so he would fall off the balcony. If he was lucky, he would hit the ground instead of falling into the Bruinen, even though the fair haired elf had to admit that he wouldn't very much care either way. Both twin sons of Elrond were incredibly annoying when they were in this kind of mood, a mood that Legolas was right now highly unwilling to put up with.  
  
He finally abandoned the attractive visions of Elrohir plummeting to his doom and contented himself with giving him another dark look that would have made both their fathers proud.  
"I'm fine. No nausea, no pain, no dizziness, no blurry vision. Now go away."  
  
The twin knitted his dark brows, a look of fake confusion on his face.  
"If I didn't know better, I would think that you wanted to get rid of me, dear Legolas."  
  
"I applaud your extraordinarily keen perception," Legolas smiled at the innocent-looking elf in front of him before he leaned back into his armchair, a gesture that rather unambiguously stated that he wanted to be left alone. "A good day to you, Elrohir."  
  
Elrohir narrowed his eyes and decided to change his tactic. Apparently Legolas really _was _having a bad day.  
"I come from Estel's room."  
  
The fair haired elf closed his eyes and silently cursed Elrohir. That darned elf was far too sneaky for his own good. He didn't say anything though and stubbornly kept his mouth shut, and so Elrohir finally got off the wooden railing and turned to leave.  
"If you're not interested, however, I'll be on my way…"   
  
"Wait."  
  
Elrohir grinned at the empty air in front of him and slowly turned back around.  
"You were saying?"  
  
Legolas shot him a look that would have frozen steaming lava.   
"I said wait. How is he?"  
  
"Probably sleeping," the other elf shrugged nonchalantly, but when he saw the expression on Legolas' face, he laughed and raised his hands. "Peace, my friend. He is well, and most likely really asleep."  
  
Legolas merely stared at him.  
"I am waiting for a definition of the word 'well', Elrohir," he finally informed the dark haired elf.  
  
"According to Glorfindel, 'alright' or 'well' means 'alive and not seriously damaged'," the twin grinned.  
  
"Elrohir…"  
  
"Alright!" The Rivendell Elf held up both his hands to ward off the elven prince who was just beginning to climb out of his armchair, murderous intent plain to see on his face. "Alright! Why don't we make a deal: You tell me how you feel, _truthfully_, and I will not only tell Gaerîn that she is needed in the healing wing but will also tell you about Estel and Elladan." He gave Legolas a cheerful smile. "Deal?"  
  
Legolas narrowed his eyes and asked himself just how Elrohir knew about his little "discussion" with Gaerîn, or rather her discussion with him. He probably didn't, he decided a moment later. Being terrified of the petite redhead seemed to be the initial reaction of everyone – except Isál, of course. Or maybe especially Isál.  
  
"Alright," he finally conceded with a small nod and let himself sink down onto his padded armchair with a very careful movement that nonetheless served to jar every single one of his injuries. "You have a deal."   
  
"I knew you'd be reasonable if you only had the right kind of encouragement," Elrohir beamed at him in a way that was rather close to dementia. He took a step closer, assumed what he probably thought to be a "wise-healer-attitude" and gave Legolas a searching look. "So, how do you feel?"   
  
Legolas paused for a second before he hesitantly decided to tell the twin the truth.  
"Horrible," he said shortly. "My whole torso hurts, I have a headache that would make the most thick-headed dwarf weep and I have two-inch-deep furrows in the palms of my hands."  
  
Elrohir merely nodded, knowing better than to try and make some kind of joke now that Legolas had actually told him how he really felt.   
"Dizziness? Nausea? Stabbing pain when you draw breath?"   
  
"No, no and no," Legolas shook his head minutely, much to Elrohir's relief. "So if you were asking if I have a concussion and/or broken ribs, the answer is no, I do not think so."  
  
The other elf shot him a wry look.  
"Has Celylith finally decided to teach you a thing or two about healing?"  
  
"Oh, he did try once," the elven prince waved a hand dismissively. "I made a small mistake with the dosage of a certain root though and…" He trailed off and shrugged. "Well, let's just say that he lost most of his enthusiasm after that little episode."  
  
"Who drank that potion you made?" Elrohir asked with an expectant grin.  
  
"You don't want to know."  
  
Elrohir stopped himself from saying that he did indeed want to know, realising that Legolas was consciously or unconsciously leading the conversation away from the former topic.  
"I have something here that will help with the pain. Will you drink it?"  
  
Legolas cocked his head to the side and gave him a mildly threatening look.  
"Will it 'accidentally' or 'coincidentally' send me to sleep?"  
  
"Not if I don't add that last ingredient which I happen to have in my pocket, no," Elrohir grinned. He quickly moved back into the room behind them and reappeared a few moments later with a small goblet in his hands. "Here," he said, pressing the drinking vessel into the wood-elf's hands, "Drink it." Legolas gave him a long look and so he added, exuding wounded pride, "Don't you trust me, Legolas?"  
  
Instead of answering the fair haired prince shot him a credible version of Lord Elrond's _look_, took the cup and swallowed the concoction in one gulp. A split second later he screwed up his face in disgust and shuddered, once again wondering just what the Lord of Rivendell put into his potions and remedies to make it taste so perfectly disgusting.  
"I do trust you, Elrohir," he finally said. "I don't know why, and there are times that I am really, really trying to figure it out."   
  
"It must be my charming personality," Elrohir shrugged nonchalantly and took the goblet from the younger elf. "It's part of our heritage."  
  
"Speaking of which," Legolas retorted, still trying to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth, "I did what you wanted. I told you that I felt lousy, I let you play your 'wise-healer-bit' and I even let you administer that horrible potion. Now it's your turn. How are they?"  
  
Elrohir grinned slightly while he pulled a second armchair closer to his friend.  
"They will both be fine – unless _ada _can escape Glorfindel and strangles them." An impatient look spread over Legolas' face, and the dark haired elf's grin widened. "Legolas, listen to me. They will be fine, I promise you."  
  
"What about Aragorn's wrist?" Legolas prompted.  
  
"Well, there are two versions: One, that it is merely sprained and that everyone is making a fuss just to annoy him, and two, that it is broken," Elrohir smiled. "You may guess which version is the one he favours."   
  
"I can imagine," Legolas smiled slightly.  
  
"Yes, his reaction was rather predictable," Elrohir agreed with a small nod. "Father, however, says it is broken, and if I have to choose between his word and Estel's, I know whom I believe."  
  
"But otherwise he's alright?"  
  
"Yes," Elrohir smiled, trying to put the other's mind at ease. He really didn't know just when Legolas had decided to behave like Aragorn's mother, but if he was honest, he didn't mind in the slightest. There were people who said that Elladan and he were acting just the same, even though he had no idea why.  
  
"Yes, he will be just fine," he repeated. "He hit his head on that stone wall, but I think it came off worse than him. He has a few bruises and cuts, but nothing too serious, and his entire right arm is of course very stiff and painful. He most probably pulled quite a few muscles; it's a miracle that he didn't dislocate anything. _Ada _ gave him the same … medicine you received yesterday, so he really should still be sleeping. Elves wake up faster than humans."  
  
"Are you sure there's nothing else?" Legolas asked, not at all caring if he sounded over-protective. "He was very quiet during the whole walk back and he did look far too pale and…"  
  
"Legolas," Elrohir said calmly, "Of course he was very quiet. He was in shock. It's only natural when you regain consciousness after falling down into a bottomless chasm to wake up and find that all that is preventing you from falling to your death is a tiny, brittle branch that happened to get caught in a crack in the wall!"  
  
"It wasn't a bottomless chasm," the prince protested automatically. "There was a ledge."  
  
"Yes," the twin nodded seriously. "Yes, there was, thank the Valar." He locked eyes with the fair haired elf. "If there hadn't been, you would all be dead."  
  
"You do not need to tell me things I already know," Legolas said, the same graveness on his face. "What about Elladan, then? How is he faring?"  
  
"Well enough," the other elf waved his hand dismissively, but Legolas had known him long enough to see the worried, uncertain sparkle in his eyes. "He'll be fine."  
  
"Elrohir," the fair haired elf admonished him gently. "How is he really?"  
  
"If you are inclined to believe him, he is 'just fine'," Elrohir shrugged slightly.  
  
"You are not, however?"  
  
"No, of course not," Elrohir shook his head. "I know him well enough not to." He shook his head again and looked up at Legolas with serious, grey eyes. "Apart from the bruises and cuts that all of you sustained," he paused for a second, "he bruised his left hip really badly. A rock or boulder or something of the like must have hit him, and dangling over that hole by a rope with both his and Estel's weight to support won't have helped matters, either."  
  
Legolas didn't answer immediately, remembering the older twin's white face when he had dragged himself and the young ranger over the edge of the stone ledge, the makeshift rope digging into his waist just above his hipbones.  
"No," he finally agreed. "I don't suppose it has." He paused for a moment, trying to figure out if Elrohir was simply being overly concerned or if he had a real reason for his unvoiced fears. "What does your father say?"   
  
"They're not sure," Elrohir bowed his head slightly. "It might be a fracture, but they can't really tell since that stubborn fool won't tell them that he hurts! He acts as if it's nothing at all, but I know in how much pain he really is! He's just too stubborn and proud to admit it."   
  
"Your father will know what to do," Legolas tried to reassure the distraught elf. "He won't let him get away with something like this."   
  
"No, he won't," Elrohir agreed, still appearing ill at ease. "Don't misunderstand me, Legolas," he added hastily after a second. "Elladan is not hurt worse than Estel. No matter what happens, he will heal; _ada _will see to it. It's just that…"  
  
"Elrohir," Legolas shook his head softly with a small smile. "I understand. You are worried."  
  
"I am worried about Estel, too," the other elf assured him, as if afraid that Legolas might misinterpret his worry for his twin as indifference to Aragorn's fate. "And about you."  
  
Legolas laughed and shook his head, much to Elrohir's indignation.  
"I know that, my friend," he nodded, the smile on his face growing wider. "We have known each other for a long time, and Aragorn is your brother in all the ways that count." He looked seriously at Elrohir, still smiling. "But Elladan is not only your brother, he is your twin. He is a part of you in a way that neither I nor Aragorn will ever fully understand, and dearer to you than anything or anyone on this world. You need not explain anything, not to me and not to Aragorn or anyone else in this house."  
  
Elrohir returned the serious look for a long time before he smiled back.  
"Did anyone ever tell you that you are a good friend?"   
  
"Celylith. Once," Legolas nodded with a grin. "That was before the whole potion incident."  
  
"He's a resentful one, isn't he?"  
  
"Yes, sometimes," the fair haired elf agreed.  
  
"I thought so," Elrohir raised an eyebrow in amusement. He slowly got to his feet and gave Legolas a taxing look. "If you promise to behave yourself while I try to send Gaerîn back to the healing wing, I will try to smuggle you over to Elladan's room. It's the best I can do; _ada_ or another of the healers will be with Estel until he wakes up."  
  
Legolas smiled broadly.  
"That would be very acceptable."  
  
"I thought so," Elrohir repeated with a smile. "I'll be back in a few minutes."  
  
Legolas nodded slowly in order not to aggravate his aching head, but Elrohir had already turned around and walked back into the room. A smile spread over Legolas' face when he heard the twin open the door and begin to try and convince Gaerîn with courteous words that her presence was urgently required in the healing wing.  
  
The sounds of the conversation faded behind him when he leaned back into his armchair and closed his eyes, allowing relief to wash over him as a sense of peace filled his being. Elladan and Aragorn would be fine, and so would Elrohir as soon as his brothers woke up.  
  
Maybe this wasn't such a bad day, after all.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...**

  
  
  
  
  
_yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years   
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
  
  
  
  
_**I am beginning to think that maybe they're all immune to forebeding. It would explain quite a lot, I think. •g• We do have a little bit more of it coming up though (you may guess whether or not Erestor & Co. actually listen to their feelings •g•). The really interesting part begins the chapter after the next, I think. •evil grin• I'm busy this week, but I'll try to update on time. Reviews always help with that! (That's shameless blackmail, I know. •g•)  
  
  
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**Additional A/N:  
  
Deana - **Oddly enough, no. He hasn't broken any ribs this time - I thought it was getting a bit old by now. •g• But he bruised some (or all of them •g•), that's something, isn't it?  
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - Whoah! You don't have to worry about not reviewing, really! I completely understand, and besides, RL always has priority, as annoying as it can be sometimes... •g• And don't worry about Erestor either. You know I won't kill him. He's canon and therefore protected. Lucky him. •g• It's entirely possible that the bad captains are getting worse. I honestly don't know. •g• I'm not telling you anything about Salir, partly because I'm evil and partly because I don't know yet. Take your pick. •g•  
**Zinnith** - Characters never agree with such statements, I think. They're quite weird. •g• LOL, Elf-jelly? Has anybody ever told you that you have a definitely weird sense of humour? I wish you luck recovering your plot bunny, though. They can be terribly annoying when they get away!•g•  
**Barbara Kennedy** - You don't have to worry about longer chapters. My chapters are always too long, no matter what I do. It's the scourge of my existence. •g•  
**HarryEstel** - •g• Yeah, you might be right. No one but Aragorn and Co. would actually manage to get themselves into such a situation. •g• Bad for them, good for us. •evil grin•  
**Elvendancer** - He was right for once, wasn't he? It DID have a bottom - somewhere ... probably ... I guess... •g• Thanks a lot for all your very nice reviews!  
**Red Tigress** - •watches for a while• So you like angst, right? •g• I would never have guessed... It's nice to hear that you're enjoying this, of course. And poor Elrohir really was a tiny bit confused at the beginning. •huggles elf• Who can blame him, really?  
**Cosmic Castaway** - •frowns• You envy what? Not having thought of having Aragorn dangle over a bottomless chasm by his wrist? Well, if that's the case: I didn't write it either. It was my alter ego. She made me do it. •g• LOL, he would have been in ME had he fallen? That's another way to see it... •g•  
**Snow-Glory** - Yep, Isál is most definitely not a very happy elf at the moment. Why couldn't he have fallen in love with something a little more attainable ... like Galadriel? •g• You'll find out why Legolas is not a very happy elf at the moment. There are several reasons, actually. •g•  
**Grumpy** - LOL, I have never seen it like that. Now that you mention it, however, I have to admit I am beginning to see how Elladan is a tiny bit like Spiderman... •g• A rather bad one, but still. But you did know that I wouldn't kill them now, didn't you? I would never let them get away so easily... •evil grin•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - Well, some people might be cross because I posted late. Or because I try to keep the review responses short. Something like that. •shrugs• You think Legolas is adorable when he's frightened? Uhm ... well, if you say so... •g• LOL, I know exactly what you mean. "Sibling-baiting" is one of my favourite pastimes as well. •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - The thing is that the adorable little animals don't appear out of thin air. I have a possible "home" for them in mind, but I honestly don't know if or when anyone is going there. I'll have to wait and see how the whole thing develops. •shrugs• Oh, and Erestor HAS left. He left ... let me have a look at my timetable ... three days ago. I'm sorry if I didn't make that clear.  
**Alilacia** - Wow! Huge review! Thanks! •huggles• LOL, yes, pinned under a boulder is not exactly what most people would call "fine". Legolas is a bit mad, we all know that. Aragorn did promise both things for the bow, though. His immortal soul AND his firstborn son. Sounds like a fair deal to me. •g• You know, you really should try to relax a little. Constantly keeling over is most likely NOT good for your health. •g• Hmm, the names... Gaerîn is Gaerrîn, meaning "red/copper-coloured queen/crowned lady". Gelydhiel is Gelydhiell, meaning "daughter of Noldor" or "Noldorin maid". Neither one is very creative. •g• ROTFL! The Mead Marshes! The Morcs, and Muruk-hai! I have to say that the Measterlings are my personal favourite.•g• Thanks again for the long review!  
**Marbienl** - Yes, I guess Gasur could turn out to be the good guy. There's a snowball's chance in hell for that... •g• Good idea with the nails, btw. But the female villain won't do anything of the sort. She has her underlings for that. •g• And I'm obsessed with saving Word documents, too. I once lost all my reviewer responses because I hadn't saved, and since then I save after every single one. It works fine for me. •g• ROTFLMHO? I have to admit that I haven't heard that one before. What does it mean? I am deeply sorry, my friend, but Aragorn won't even be in this chapter, and not much in the next one, either. •hides while Marbienl runs over to her scaffold• Sorry!   
**CrazyLOTRfan** - Well, you know them. They never agree with us. They're weird. •shrugs• •g• Yes, the abyss would have been quite useful earlier on. Well, you can't have everything, I guess. And you're right, of course. I did bully Elrond, at least a little bit. Only a tiny little bit. •g•  
**Katie** - Well, technically speaking the twins are in fact related to the Kinslayers. Rather distantly though, besides, I always thought Fingolfin and sons were rather decent in comparison with Fëanor and the others. LOL, no, Erestor has not been eaten. Yet. •evil grin• We'll see how long that lasts...  
**Ventinari** - Hmm, I think I'm beginning to see what you mean. I haven't seen Law and Order, I never really liked that show, but I think I understand. The thing is that for something like that to happen Erestor would need some kind of leverage, otherwise there would be no reason for Acalith to even talk with him. I can work with the respect angle, though, even though I have to say that there'll be no attraction between them. She's not very fond of elves. •g• I haven't really thought about the next story, however. I am beginning to think about having Arwen (or at least the meeting between her and Aragorn) in the story after the next, so I would need the twins and Aragorn to return to Rivendell at the end of the next one after having done "great deeds". Yes, I know that it's rather strange to stick to Tolkien after having postponed the meeting for four years. •g• I'm never happy about changing the setting at the end of a story, so I guess the next story will also take place in Rivendell. I might be able to do something about the one after that, however. •g•  
**Crippled Raven** - You don't know my real name, trust me. Don't say it's "Clodia", that's only my email address. She was the sister of Publius Clodius, a tribune in Rome. A very interesting woman if you ask me, rather evil and devious, too. That's why I chose that name. •g• Oh, and you're not alone. I hate the British Weather too, not counting the summer a year ago. •shivers• If you think English/British Medieval History is boring, try Germany. There's nothing more horrible than that. Absolutely nothing. •shudders• The good thing about Modern Dictators is that you don't really have to learn all that much. Most of it you know already (Wall Street, First and Second World War and so on), but I have no idea about what went on in 1350. Or 1250. Or 1150. •g• You might be right about the "Save Erestor Foundation". Bugger. •g•  
**Tychen** - LOL, you're right, of course. No one would notice. •g• The comparison to elite army groups might be true, though. I always thought you had to be quite daft to join them... •g• "Interactive learning aid", huh? Well, I'll tell Gaerîn and the others - but somehow I have the feeling that she sees that a little differently. •g•  
**Radbooks** - •g• Oh yes, I'm good at making them say silly things. •evil grin• And that's the whole point, my friend: That he won't be able to fight properly with a broken wrist. Don't look at me like that, it's my alter ego's fault. And I think it's safe to say that neither of the two is in great shape right now. •looks at battered and bruised elves/ranger• No, not really. Sorry about (your) Glorfindel, btw. He'll be in the next chapter. That's something, right? •innocent smile•  
**Elvingirl3737** - "Alive and injured" is your favourite combination, huh? Well, you're in good company then. Most people here think the same, I believe. •g• Thank you very much for all your compliments (•blushes•) and all your very nice reviews!  
**Viggomaniac** - I somehow knew you were going to say that. Yes, I'm psychic. •g• And I have no idea why Aragorn is glaring at you. Just ignore him. •g• You might be right about the prelude, btw. It's something like that, indeed. •evil grin• And OF COURSE you are not begging for Aragorn torture. You would never do something like that, right? •ironic grin• I will think about not leaving Aragorn behind, but if I don't, it will be because of your request and not because of Legolas'. I know that I will probably get stoned to death for saying this, but I don't think that (Movie-) Legolas is pretty. Even though he really is "Legolas the Perfectly Groomed One". •g• There, I said it. Kill me. •g• Anyway, thank you very much for all your compliments! It's great to hear that you're enjoying this so far!  
**TrustingFriendship** - Hey, welcome back! Nice to hear that you've caught up. We're all a little bit busy right now, I think, so don't worry. (Damn you, RL!! •shakes fist• About Erestor and his escort surviving this whole thing, however... •trails off• Ah well, you'll see soon enough. •evil grin• •huggles• Thanks for reviewing!  
**Crystal-Rose15** - I'm sorry to hear about your horse. And your cat. And your cousin, of course. You could pay me all the money you wanted and I still wouldn't go there. There are of course people who don't have a choice, but still. I really hope nothing happens to him/her. Try to enjoy your holiday though. I am so jealous! Hawaii! I've always wanted to go to Hawaii! And I want that coconut! •g•  
**Arrina** - No, you may not kill the bad guy. I need him, I really do. And I guess that the twins are using "real" rope for most of the time. Otherwise they would have "fallen and broken all the bones in their bodies." •g• Great to hear that you like Gaerîn. I'm always a little nervous when intrudicing female characters.  
**Aratfeniel** - LOL, yes, indeed. We all panic when loved one fall down a cliff, onto a ledge and are crushed by boulders. It's natural, I think. •g• I did sound a little bit odd, though. Don't worry about it. We're all insane here. •g•  
**Elitenschwein** - Also jetzt mach mal halblang. Ich war gar nicht SO gemein zu Aragorn. Ich kann noch fieser werden! •g• Deine Schwester ist also ein "Hobbit Fancier", huh? Ich muss zugeben, dass ich das noch nie verstanden habe. Ich fand die Hobbits schon in den Buechern nervig, aber die Filme haben dem dann ja noch die Krone aufgesetzt. So was von daemlich teilweise! "Comic Relief" ist ja schoen und gut, aber das... Das einzige, was ich an Pippin in den Filmen mag, ist sein schottischer Akzent. Frag' lieber nicht; ich hab' eine ganz seltsame Fixierung auf schottische Akzente. •g• Ich bin uebrigens fuer das Gen. Ist das einzige, was das alles erklaert. Ich meine, sieh's mal so: Dior, Elwing, Finwë, Fingolfin, Turgon, Idril etc. etc. - die hatten alle ein Schweinepech! Eindeutig genetisch! •g• Schoen, dass du Gaerîn magst, btw. Ich hoffe doch, dass sie und Isál mal zusammenkommen - falls sie das alles ueberleben... •fieses Grinsen•  
  
**Alright, I've got to go now. I've got to do all my coursework** **today so I can spent all day tomorrow (or rather the evening) in front of a TV, watching the US elections and praying. Fervently. •g•**


	8. Looking Back

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
  
  
**A/N:  
  
Yes, I'm proud of Legolas, too. •huggles resisting elven prince• He actually managed to accept that he is not SuperMan, uhm, SuperElf, I mean, and has publicly admitted to feeling a tiny bit unwell. •g• Only a tiny bit, of course. Speaking about people being well (or rather not being well): I am NOT going to tell you what happens to Erestor's patrol or Elvynd for that matter. It would be boring, and besides, you don't wan to know. You can trust me on that, really. •g•  
  
•sighs• Sometimes I really, really wonder about you guys! Some people are already asking when the "Erestor torture" will begin. Just why does everyone automatically assume that I will torture each and every elf/ranger/innocent bystander I can get my hands on? I never said that I WOULD torture him in any way, did I? •narrows eyes• Alright, now that's clear I can tell you that I have no idea. •g• Things will start to get ... well, let's say interesting, shall we? ... next chapter, so my guess would be sometime around chapter 11/12/13. No, I can't be any more vague, sorry. •g•  
  
  
•still grinning• Sorry. I just love being evil and vague. •g• Be that as it may, here's chapter 8, which I would have called "The Calm Before the Storm I" if it wasn't such a stupid title. We have lots of conservations between lots of elves (most of which are decidedly unhappy) and Aragorn manages to make Glorfindel mad. Yeah, I know. What else is new?  
  
Have fun and review, please!  
  
  
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Chapter 8  
  
  
The sun was just sinking below the horizon, and while Glorfindel studied the face of the man who was lying in a bed next to him, he began to ask himself if his friend had miscalculated.  
  
Guilt welled up inside of him because of his faithless and sceptical thought, but the golden haired elf pushed it back. Even though the medical mistakes and errors Elrond had made over the years could be counted on the fingers of his hands (and considering his friend's age that meant quite a lot), it was in the realm of the possible that the other elf had erred slightly – if they were lucky.  
  
Glorfindel leaned back into his chair, trying to ignore his anxiety that was growing stronger with each passing hour. If they were lucky, Elrond or one of the healers had made a mistake when they had measured the ingredients for the medicine the young ranger had been given yesterday afternoon. If they were not, Aragorn was suffering from a head wound none of them had noticed, which was by far the more disconcerting possibility.  
  
No matter how much he wanted to deny it, it was also a possibility that was beginning to seem ever more likely. He didn't know all that much about healing – except never to get on Elrond's or Gaerîn's wrong side, of course – but even he was aware of the fact that the man should have woken up by now. Prince Legolas had already regained consciousness, after all, more than ten hours ago, and so had Elladan. Even considering that elves usually recovered faster from drug-induced sleep than the Second People it was a worrying development, for they had been expecting Estel to wake up around noon.   
  
The elf shook his head slowly, doing his best not to think about these things too much. He was anxious, yet, and he knew for a fact that Elrond was already far past a state of mind that could have been termed "anxious" in any way, but the fact remained that it was simply too early to tell. The more reasonable part of his half-elven friend was aware of that, too, but the part that was simply a worried father was not able to keep so calm.  
  
Which was why he had arrived on the doorstep of Aragorn's room half an hour ago, accompanied by Gelydhiel, Gaerîn's dark haired cousin. The she-elf had explained to the unwilling Lord of Rivendell the – fabricated – reasons why his presence was urgently required in the healing wing, and even though Elrond had been highly unwilling to leave his human son's side, he had consented to do so in the end, but only after Glorfindel had sworn by all the Valar that he would stay with the young man no matter what.  
  
Glorfindel grinned slightly. He was surprised himself that everything had worked out so well. He hadn't thought that Elrond would give in so easily, which was why he had wanted to take Gaerîn with him at first, no matter how frightened he was of her if he was perfectly honest. The red haired healer had been undiscoverable, however, even though one of the junior healers had mumbled something about her having wanted "to take a stroll in the gardens with someone".  
  
The dark haired she-elf had quickly volunteered to take her relative's place, something Glorfindel had regretted for only a second. Gaerîn tended to be intimidating, but he seriously doubted that Elrond would be intimidated by anything but a Vala or maybe a fallen Maia, so that wouldn't have helped at all. Where Gaerîn was slightly fearsome, however, Gelydhiel was sympathetic and persuasive, and he was rather sure that her understanding look rivalled even that of the Lady of the Golden Wood.  
  
So now here he was and Elrond was not. The half-elven lord had left the room with Gelydhiel, however reluctantly, and if everything went according to plan, one of Erestor's aides would intercept him right when he left the healing wing because of a problem with some missing reports of the last council meeting. The golden haired elf grinned. He was rather glad that Erestor was not here, since he could never have convinced him to go along with this (or only with a great deal more trouble than his aide) – and besides, the dark haired elf would most likely have killed him if he had heard that he had "lost" his precious records.  
  
Glorfindel wrenched his thoughts away from the sudden vision of Erestor's face assuming a deathly white pallor while he stared at him with one of his cold glares. The point was that everything was going just as he had planned. Elrond was busy, he was looking after Aragorn and there was even a nice side-effect, namely that he and his lord were not forced to stare at each other like two adversaries waiting for the other one to make the first move.  
  
Neither of them was willing to be the first one to speak, Elrond because he didn't know what was wrong with him and he because he simply did not want to. Yes, he had promised Erestor that he would speak with their lord and tell him what was on his mind, but he had not said specifically _when _he would do it. He would try to postpone the moment of truth as long as possible, and yet Glorfindel was no fool. He knew his friend well, better than most people on this side of the Great Sea, and he knew perfectly well that Elrond wouldn't just give up. If there was one thing that was characteristic of the half-elf, it was his inborn inability to give up and let a matter rest when he thought himself to be right. He was also astonishingly stubborn, and a combination of the two could be deadly.  
  
He sighed tiredly while he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Aragorn's sleeping, relaxed face. Sleep somehow made the man look even younger, and apart from the more angular features and the soft stubble on his cheeks the resemblance with Elrond and his family was obvious. It wasn't a remarkable resemblance or anything like that, but there was simply no way a man could look just like his long-distant elven uncle. 39 generations tended to get into the way of such things.  
  
Still, he mused silently, sometimes, in unguarded moments such as this one, it was easy to see the kinship between this young one and his best friend. In very, very rare moments, however, Aragorn looked even more like someone he had known a long, long time ago, before the western world was rent asunder and the whole face of Arda utterly changed.   
  
He was well aware of the fact that he most likely looked for and found things that were not even there, and that the desire to see what he wished to see was all that was responsible for it, but sometimes, when the sun had sunken below the horizon, the light was dim and the shadows lay heavily over the lands, the young man he was gazing at right now looked just like Tuor, the man who had won the heart of Idril Celebrindal, the daughter of the elf whom he had once called his lord and king.  
  
It wasn't as much an outer resemblance, Glorfindel thought not for the first time. Even though Tuor had been a man while Elrond was only… Glorfindel trailed off and did a quick mental calculation. If he wasn't very much mistaken, less than half of Elrond's blood was actually human. Be that as it may, even though Tuor had been a man, he was such a remote ancestor of Aragorn's that to actually see a resemblance would have been a major miracle.   
  
It was more the fact that both of them, Tuor and Aragorn, had not grown up among their own kind. Idril's husband had been fostered by the Sindar of Mithrim while Estel had had the incomparably better fortune of having been fostered by the Noldor or Rivendell, but still both of them had been adopted by the Firstborn when they had been little more than toddlers. Just like Elrond's human son Tuor had been more an elf than a man, even though the son of Huor had always been more solemn and serious, though he had been only a few years older when he had first met him than Aragorn was now. Considering all the things that had happened to him which Elrond's son had mercifully been spared, it was not much of a surprise, and yet the likeness was not to be ignored easily.  
  
A small smile spread over Glorfindel's face as he remembered that day many ages ago, when he had first set eyes on the man who would later marry his king's daughter. Tuor had been cloaked in dark cloth just like Estel was every time he went off with the rangers, and proud and valiant had he seemed when he had ridden through the gates with the trumpets' call surrounding him, the trumpets Ecthelion had bidden his men to sound.  
  
Sadness mingled with fondness when the golden haired elf remembered his long-dead friend who had brought the son of Huor before Turgon their king, and before Idril his daughter and Maeglin the Accursed, the king's sister-son who had betrayed Gondolin's secrets and all his kin. It had been Maeglin who had counselled the king against following Ulmo's instructions which Tuor had brought, and hardly a season went by when Glorfindel did not ask himself why he had not seen the first hints of treachery in Aredhel's son back then. Nobody had though, not even Ecthelion or Turgon their lord, and so they had stayed and defied the Vala's warnings, no matter how insistently and stubbornly Tuor had told them to leave for the Mouths of Sirion while there was still time.  
  
Oh yes, Tuor had been stubborn.  
  
"All of your kin are stubborn, young one," Glorfindel said softly, not even realising that he had spoken the words out aloud. "They always have been and they always will be." He leaned forward, as if willing the man to open his eyes and protest. "I am beginning to regret having scolded you so often about it. You never really had a chance, considering your ancestors."  
  
Glorfindel was about to say more, to tell the man to stop trying to outdo his kin, but a soft sound behind him arrested his attention and alarmed him to the fact that he was no longer alone. The creaking of a floorboard sounded overly loudly in the utter stillness of the room, and even despite all his preparations and scheming he wasn't overly surprised when he heard Elrond's voice behind him, sounding torn between mild amusement and annoyance.  
  
"Corrupting the young ones again, are you?"  
  
"I am not corrupting anyone, my lord," Glorfindel shook his head without turning around. "I am merely telling the boy the truth."  
  
"A truth he is well aware of," Elrond announced, a smile in his voice. "He has been telling me that all his shortcomings are my fault and that of the twins, ever since he was about ten years old."  
  
"Has he now?" Glorfindel asked amusedly. "He is wiser and more keen-sighted than I have given him credit for, then."  
  
"Yes, he is a crafty one," Elrond nodded with a fond smile at his foster son that was laced with suppressed worry. He forced himself to concentrate on something else and took a step forward, closer to his golden haired friend. "Not entirely unlike someone else I could name."  
  
"I have no idea what you are talking about, my lord."   
  
Elrond snorted softly and dragged an armchair closer to the bed, thanking the Valar that none of his sons were here to witness this behaviour for which he was scolding them all the time. Well, at least none of them was conscious right now, which was more disconcerting than reassuring if he was completely honest.  
  
"I am sure that Erestor won't be very happy to hear that you scared his aide almost witless."  
  
"I did not scare him," Glorfindel protested before he could stop himself. "He agreed to help me all by himself – after a while."  
  
A wide grin spread over the dark haired elf's face, and he raised a finger and waggled it from side to side triumphantly.  
"Aha! So you _did _put him up to all this; I just knew it!" He paused for a moment to give Glorfindel the time to look appropriately chagrined before he added smugly, "You do realise that Erestor will kill you when he hears that you lost his records."  
  
Glorfindel shot his friend an aggrieved look.  
"I am hurt, _mellon nín_! What exactly are you accusing me of?"  
  
"Of sending me on something closely resembling a wild goose chase through my own house," Elrond answered deadpan.  
  
"It is unbecoming an elf lord to accuse a fellow lord of something as knavish as that."  
  
"It is also unbecoming an elf lord to plot against his lord and try to fool him like that," Elrond shot back, a twinkle in his eyes. Glorfindel merely accepted defeat with a shrug, and so he added after a moment, "But I realise what your intentions were, my friend. I should probably thank you."  
  
"Yes," Glorfindel grinned. "You probably should. But I won't insist on it, if you promise not to tell Erestor. And I am talking both about his aide and about the reports."  
  
"He will hear about it whether I tell him or not," Elrond warned his friend rather unnecessarily. There was not much Erestor missed, and more than once Elrond had asked himself if his chief advisor had established a spy ring or something like that to keep informed about everything that went on in the Last Homely House.  
  
"Yes, he probably will," Glorfindel agreed, his grin only widening. For someone who had just been caught at decidedly un-elf-lordly behaviour by his lord, he looked rather unconcerned and nonchalant. "But if you don't tell him, he won't have any definite proof. He will come to me and demand an explanation, I will of course deny having done something so outrageously immature, he will glare at me with that cold look of his and I will pretend to be the most innocent elf in all of Arda." The blond elf leaned back in his armchair and crossed his arms over his chest. "In short: I will have at least a fortnight's entertainment. I can hardly wait!"  
  
"You are mad," Elrond observed, a statement that was probably several centuries overdue. "You are actually looking forward to facing an irate Erestor? He will dismember you – if you are lucky. He positively hates it when someone interferes with his paperwork, and rest assured that even I will dive for cover and hope he will not notice me when he realises you actually _lost _his reports!"   
  
"I did not _lose _them," the golden haired elf protested. "I know where they are. The only thing that really interests me at the moment is the question how long _he _will need to find them."   
  
"I give up!" Elrond declared loudly and raised his hands in a gesture that was obviously meant to absolve him from any guilt whatsoever. "If you want to commit suicide, be my guest. Just don't drag anyone else down with you."  
  
"As you wish, my lord."  
  
"I would be much obliged, my friend," Elrond nodded regally and leaned forward a little, unable to shake off his dark mood completely. He knew that Glorfindel was trying to take his mind off his worry for his human son, but he also knew that his friend knew that it was nothing but an exercise in futility. The fact that Aragorn was adopted and not his child by blood had lost its importance (if it ever had possessed such a thing in the first place) many years ago. How was he supposed to distract himself from the fact that his son was not waking up as he should, or from the fact that it was perhaps even he himself who was to blame for this?  
  
He hadn't even realised that he had fallen silent and that Glorfindel had, too, until a hand was placed on his shoulder and he looked up, right into the sympathetic eyes of his friend.  
"It's not your fault, Elrond. You did nothing wrong."   
  
"Is that so?" the dark haired elf asked tiredly and shook his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on the sleeping ranger in front of him. "Six hours ago I would have agreed with you, my friend. Now I am not so sure anymore."  
  
Glorfindel shook his head as well, his reluctance to be in the same room as Elrond fading from his mind as if it had never existed. He knew the half-elf well enough to know that one needed to snap him out of such a mood immediately if one didn't want him to brood for a few weeks.   
"How many times have you made that medicine?" he finally asked reasonably.  
  
Elrond frowned and turned slightly to look at him.  
"About twice a week since the twins learned how to crawl," he answered with a small, almost undetectable smile. "A lot of times."  
  
"Precisely," the other elf nodded. "You could make that potion in your sleep and with one hand tied behind your back. You didn't make a mistake, _mellon nín_. Estel is merely being stubborn. Again."   
  
"Maybe," the dark haired elf agreed softly. "Maybe." He returned his gaze to Aragorn's motionless figure before he added, "With whom were you comparing him earlier?"  
  
For a moment, Glorfindel contemplated not answering or trying to elude the question, but then he sighed inwardly. The last thing Elrond needed now was him to add to his worries.   
"With your grandfather."  
  
That seemed to catch the distracted half-elf by surprise.   
"Tuor?"  
  
"I never knew the son of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel," Glorfindel said in a manner of agreement. "Yet when the tidings of his death reached us, the whole of Gondolin mourned his fall and that of Doriath." The golden haired elf's eyes darkened, but after a second he looked back up and gave Elrond a small smile. "You and your sons have much of your mother and her kin. Among it the inability to back down when you think yourselves to be right."   
  
Elrond didn't answer immediately, his thoughts straying to that horrible day more than six thousand years ago when the sons of Fëanor had assaulted the Mouths of Sirion. Elros and he had been very young then, and many of his memories from these days were hazy and vague which he bitterly lamented, but this one scene had burnt itself into his brain so firmly that he would never be able to forget it. No, he thought to himself, he could never forget how his mother had stood with her back to the cliff over which she would later cast herself, with the Silmaril shining brightly on her breast and almighty fury on her face, a fury that dwarfed even her obvious fear and pain and the regret she felt for the decision she had already made.   
  
The dark haired elf closed his eyes for a moment. Maedhros had commanded her to give up the stone for which they had slain her father and destroyed her home and Maglor had tried to reason with her, but even though he had been young and terrified by the deaths of so many of their friends and warriors he had known that their efforts were in vain. In the last look that Elwing had given him and his brother before she had turned around and jumped was the fierce determination not to yield the jewel to the Kinslayers, her determination not to give up that for which her parents, her brothers and her kin from Doriath and now from the Havens of Sirion had died – even if it meant her own death and that she would not see her sons grow up.  
  
When he had been younger, he had been torn between understanding and pride and the feeling that she had abandoned Elros and him to their enemies. With the passage of time (and certainly aided by the fact that their captors, and especially Maglor, turned out to be a lot less terrible than they had first thought) he had come to understand her better, even though he had never seen her again after that day. His mother couldn't have acted in any other way, not even if she had wanted to. It was simply not in her nature to back down.  
  
"Yes," he finally said and nodded slightly. "You are right. My mother was stubborn, just like my father and his father before him."   
  
"Indeed," Glorfindel nodded as well with a small smile. "Tuor was truly a lot like Aragorn. It's not really an outward resemblance, but rather the fact that…"  
  
"I know," Elrond interrupted him. "He is trying hard to be like those around him, and yet he knows that he will never succeed. But no matter what happens, he keeps trying."  
  
"Which, if I recall correctly, is to blame for his current situation," Glorfindel announced gravely. "How he managed to reach the ripe old age of twenty-three will forever remain a mystery to me, I think."  
  
Elrond merely nodded without saying anything, leaving Glorfindel to fight with himself about what to do. A part of him wanted to maintain the more or less comfortable silence and keep reminiscing about people and places they had both known a long time ago, but another part of him remembered all too clearly the promise he had given Erestor. After a few moments the fear of what Erestor would do to him if he found out that he had not only "lost" his reports but also broken his promise won out, and so he straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.  
  
"I am sorry," he finally said. "If there was a way to undo what happened, I gladly would."  
  
Elrond looked up, confusion plain to see on his tired face.   
"What are you talking about, Glorfindel? When my dear sons and the prince decided to prove that they haven't got half a brain put together, you were in a meeting with your captains. There is no way you could have known what they were up to or prevented what happened."  
  
The other elf shook his head, finding a sudden interest in the blanket that covered one of aforementioned, brainless sons.  
"I was not talking about yesterday, my lord."  
  
Elrond needed only half a second to realise what his blond friend was talking about, and the sudden understanding that swept through him made him shake his head disbelievingly. After all the ages Glorfindel had lived he was still behaving like this?  
"Glorfindel," he began slowly and very clearly. "It was not your fault."  
  
"I beg to differ," the other elf retorted tonelessly. "It was my duty to ensure you sons' welfare. My duty to keep them from harm, my duty to look after them when they could not. My duty to protect them from any who would injure them in any way."  
  
The Lord of Rivendell knew better than to argue with the golden haired elf next to him. Glorfindel took his mission to protect all those of the line of Fingolfin very seriously indeed, and he did not take what he perceived to be failure easily.  
"You are but an elf, my friend," he tried to reason with the other. "There are limits to what you can do without landing yourself in Námo's hospitable dwelling once more."  
  
If the golden haired elf had heard him, he did a rather good job pretending that he hadn't.  
"I should have stopped them when they left the palace. I should have stopped them when they wanted to investigate the city, and I should _never _have sought an audience with Girion. It is my fault that the twins and young Celythramirion were captured. It is my fault that they were tortured. It is my fault that they were almost killed. I have failed you, my lord, and I have failed them. Forgive me."  
  
"You could not have known," Elrond shook his head, once again wondering why people were calling _him _stubborn. Glorfindel could be ten times worse! "You are not omniscient."  
  
"But I _should _have known!" the older elf exclaimed. "I am not a naïve little elfling or a novice who is easily deceived! I should have known what we were walking into, yet I did not!"  
  
The dark haired elf was very close to hanging his head. This was not working as it should, but then again, what else had he been expecting?  
"You really think you are to blame for what happened?"   
  
"Yes," Glorfindel nodded darkly. "I have failed you, my lord. Forgive me."  
  
Elrond narrowed his eyes, not really knowing whether he should feel touched, annoyed, worried or amused.  
"No," he finally answered, deciding on a new approach. "Definitely not."  
  
The blond elf startled visibly. This was most decidedly the last thing he had expected to hear.  
"My lord?"  
  
"No," Elrond repeated. "I will not forgive you, because there is absolutely nothing to forgive. You did nothing wrong, and are not responsible for things beyond your control. The last time I checked, you were omniscient or all-seeing. If you hadn't accompanied my sons and Celylith, things would have gone far, far worse than they did. It does not do to second-guess things that cannot be changed, Glorfindel. No one but Ilúvatar himself knows all the answer and can see all ends."  
  
"If it is not my fault," Glorfindel began stubbornly, "Then why did the young ones have to pay the price for my foolishness?"  
  
For a moment, Elrond was tempted to lose his temper. He took a deep breath to regain control over himself, and finally decided not to strangle the insufferably stubborn elf next to him. With an exasperated flick of his head he merely reached out and took hold of the collar of the other's robes and, to Glorfindel's astonishment, pulled until his neck was exposed.  
  
Elrond scowled at his stunned friend and swatted his hands away as if they were particularly annoying insects. Even though the golden haired elf was trying to squirm out of his grasp in a very un-elf-lordly manner, his throat was clearly visible – and so was the faint, pink line that wound around his neck like a strange, close-fitting necklace. For human eyes it would have been hard to see the mark at all, but Elrond had no such problems.   
  
"So," he began and barely refrained from jabbing a finger at the fading scar, "only the young ones, eh? Do I really have to remind you that you almost died?"  
  
It happened very rarely that Glorfindel actually didn't know what to say, but Elrond was too agitated to savour the moment adequately. All the half-elf noticed was that his friend was keeping stubbornly silent, something that was making him feel rather angry.  
  
"Morgoth take your accursed stubbornness, Glorfindel!" he exclaimed and would nearly have jabbed his finger at the mark after all. "Do you think I would blame you for anything? Do you think my sons or the prince and his friend would blame you? Did you expect Aragorn not to tell me what happened, not to tell me how these people nearly hanged you? Elbereth be my witness, I had this entire conversation with him, too – because he blamed himself for what happened!"  
  
"Estel?" Glorfindel asked unbelievingly. "But why would he…?"   
  
"Because he thought it was his fault the humans decided to try and kill you. Because he watched you fall from the gallows and thought you to be dead, thought that he would have to return to me and tell me that you had died like a common criminal. Because he is just as thick-headed as you, and because he has apparently decided to imitate your behaviour to the letter." Elrond fell silent for a moment before he continued. "I do not know what else to say, my friend. I do not blame you, and I am convinced that, had you not accompanied them, my sons and the other would be dead. I cannot thank you enough for the protection and assistance you have given them, and I could not repay you in a thousand years. I owe you all I hold dear in this world."  
  
If Glorfindel hadn't stopped blushing a few thousand years ago, he was sure he would have assumed the colour of rich Dorwinion wine. Even though he gave no outward reaction to his friend's words, he was inwardly squirming like a worm on a hook.  
"You owe me nothing, Elrond. Nothing at all."  
  
"I think we can come to an accord, then," the dark haired elf nodded seriously, a hint of merriment in his dark grey eyes. "You deny that I owe you anything, and I deny that you owe me anything. Let us just say that nothing could have been changed and that no one is to blame."  
  
Glorfindel narrowed his eyes slightly, a smile threatening to spread over his face.  
"You really can't give up, can you?"  
  
"Not when I know I'm right, no."  
  
"Then all I can say is 'Thank you', I believe," the blond elf inclined his head gracefully. Elrond didn't say anything but merely smiled at him, and so he raised his head again, an answering smirk on his face. "Estel truly never stood a chance, poor boy that he is."  
  
"I will remind you to tell him as soon as he wakes up," Elrond reassured his friend dryly.  
  
"Remind him to tell me what?" a soft voice asked curiously.   
  
"That you are incredibly thick-headed and…" Glorfindel trailed off, only now realising who had spoken these words. He gave Elrond a look that very clearly said "I told you so", but the other elf lord missed his friend's smug expression since his eyes were fixed on his son's face. "And the rest can wait," he finished quickly.  
  
Aragorn blinked slowly, apparently still not fully awake. His thoughts moved with the lazy slowness he always experienced after a very deep, dreamless sleep, and even if he hadn't had any training in the healing arts, he would have known that said deep, dreamless sleep had not been entirely natural.  
  
Before he could say anything, his elven father had leaned forward, one of his hands reaching out to touch his forehead and one reaching for his thickly bandaged wrist that lay on the covers.   
"You gave us quite a scare, Estel," Elrond scolded, barely managing to conceal the relief he felt. "How do you feel? What is the last thing you remember?"  
  
Aragorn frowned, confused.  
"I feel…" His frown deepened as the numerous aches and hurts in his body registered in his consciousness for the first time. "I feel as if I had fallen prey to one of the twins' more elaborate pranks."  
  
"I can imagine," Elrond nodded amusedly, carefully putting the man's injured hand back onto his chest. "You slept a long time, _ion nín_. Can you remember what happened before you fell asleep yesterday?"   
  
"Yesterday?" Aragorn asked, flabbergasted. He gave the dark sky outside a quick look, suddenly understanding why his father was so relieved. He must have slept for more than a day! Realising that Elrond was still waiting for an answer, he searched his memories and finally raised his slightly aching head, a sheepish expression on his face. "Uhm, the last thing I remember would be you lecturing me on my general immaturity, recklessness and stupidity, Gelydhiel force-feeding me that horrible potion of yours and Glorfindel standing in the background and grinning like a crazed monkey."  
  
"A crazed monkey?" Glorfindel sounded torn between indignation and outrage.  
  
Elrond smiled broadly.  
"Your memory seems to be working well then – or at least as well as before. For a while I feared we had overdosed you, but now I think it's safe to say that Glorfindel was right and you were merely being stubborn."   
  
Aragorn opened his mouth to say something, but his soft voice was drowned out by Glorfindel's indignant voice. The blond elf seemed not even to have noticed that Elrond had publicly admitted that he had been right all along, so busy was he staring evilly at Aragorn.  
"A crazed _monkey_?!"  
  
The look Glorfindel was shooting the bruised man in front of him would have cowed most beings, and had in fact served to do so in the past. It had worked reasonably well on a balrog and even the Witchking of Angmar, which made the fact that it failed to have any effect whatsoever on Aragorn even worse.  
  
The young man merely wrinkled his brow, his attention diverted between his bandaged right wrist and the irate elf sitting next to his bed.  
"A handsome, wise crazed monkey?"  
  
Glorfindel's expression became even darker (something Aragorn had thought nigh impossible), but before he could do anything that would most likely have had detrimental effects on the young man's health, Elrond had grabbed him by the sleeve and all but dragged him into the direction of the door.  
  
"I need to have a look at him," the Lord of Imladris announced in the calm, reasonable tone of voice that had diffused countless diplomatic crises over thousands of years. "I am still not completely certain that he is not suffering from any head wounds. I would be much obliged to you if you went and informed the twins and Legolas that Estel has woken up."  
  
Glorfindel did not answer immediately but allowed himself to be pushed through the room, and only when Elrond was already opening the door was he able to push back his indignation sufficiently to speak – or rather to grumble.  
"Not like Tuor."  
  
Elrond raised an amused eyebrow.  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"He is not like Tuor," the golden haired elf declared darkly while he was being pushed out of the room. "Having been fostered by Grey Elves notwithstanding, Tuor had _manners_."   
  
Elrond did not answer but quickly shut the door in his friend's face, both because he didn't want Glorfindel to start ranting and because he didn't know for how much longer he could keep a straight face. He waited for a moment or two until Glorfindel's indignant footsteps faded in the distance, doing his best to assume a serious, stern countenance. Aragorn might remember a part of his lecture from yesterday, but he knew for a fact that he had fallen asleep before he had got to the really interesting part.  
  
The Lord of Rivendell finally turned around, relief once again pulsing through him when he looked at his fidgeting, but undeniably awake foster son. Aragorn might not be Tuor, no, but he right now he wouldn't have traded the young man for anyone in this world.

  
  
He knew that he should feel excited, and if not that, he should at least feel content or relieved. The fact that he could detect none of these feelings did not surprise him in the slightest, something that really did nothing to improve his mood.  
  
That, however, Elvynd mused, would be rather hard, too. His mood had left "bad" far behind a long time ago and was right now bordering on something that could only be called "abysmal". He had resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't find out why exactly he was having these dark feelings (yet another thing that added to said mood), and the fact that they had arrived at their destination did not help much either.  
  
The dark haired captain raised a hand without turning around on his horse, his eyes still fixed on the sight in front of him. Alarmed by the gesture, the following elves also reigned in their horses. Quickly there were standing seven animals side to side on top of the small ridge that was overlooking the valley while their riders studied the scene with various degrees of antipathy, interest and curiosity.  
  
Elvynd sighed inwardly. They were here.  
  
It wasn't really such a horrible sight, at least not on first glance. The ridge they were standing on was located to the north of the valley that spread out beneath their feet and that was right now only dimly lit by the last rays of the sun that was disappearing behind the hills in the West. The soft light that spread over the lands added a peaceful, almost surreal air to their surroundings, and yet Elvynd was not feeling very peaceful, and that was mainly because of the smoke.  
  
The grey, mist-like cloud hovered over the town of Aberon that was clearly visible below them, a substantial accumulation of large and small buildings that was encircled by a wall that looked very solid even from here. It was located close to the broad, shimmering band that was the river Mitheithel and that wound through the entire length of the long valley, finally disappearing from view in the growing twilight.  
  
Smaller, single houses and shacks could be seen outside the human settlement, clearly farmhouses; the homes of the families that supplied Aberon with food. Elvynd squinted slightly when he saw a large and obviously new quay on the banks of the river that was flanked on all sides by large and also new warehouses. It was built half on top and half into the long line of dams that had been erected to protect the lands from flooding, something that had happened quite often in the past. They were neither old nor new, since they were always being repaired and strengthened. The humans living close to the Hoarwell knew that they owed at least a part of their prosperity to the river, but they had also come to fear its unpredictable and sometimes violent temper.  
  
Elvynd tried to see the saline, truly nothing more than a small mine, which he knew to be somewhere to the west of the town, but he could not find it in the dim light. The lights of the town were already being lit, and he could even watch as two lights on both sides on the river flared to life as the keepers of the ford lit their lanterns. For a region that was inhabited by Men it looked peaceful and even tranquil, but he had long ago learnt that appearances could be deceiving. His family hailed from the part of Arda which the other races now called Hollin, after all. If there was anyone who knew everything about this, it was those who had once had called Celebrimbor their lord.  
  
He was still trying to convince himself that one could really not compare this situation to what had happened in the Second Age when Lord Erestor suddenly appeared next to him, managing to move his horse almost soundlessly past the other animals. The dark haired advisor's face had lost all its earlier good humour and looked now calm and composed, his grey eyes as emotionless as small chips of stone.  
  
"Is this the ford?" he finally asked after several moments, one of his hands pointing into the direction of the two lanterns.  
  
"Yes, my lord," Elvynd nodded. "They always light the lamps when darkness falls. It is possible to cross the river even at night, even though you have to pay an extra fine to do it."  
  
Erestor merely nodded his head, not very much surprised.   
"I see. It is lucky that we don't have to cross it then, is it not, Captain?"  
  
"Indeed, my lord," Elvynd nodded as well, trying to dispel the disquieting feeling that the other elf was trying to stall. Lord Erestor never stalled, did he?  
  
Erestor gave him a sharp look but didn't comment on his curt answers. He was not surprised by it, since it had almost been possible to watch as the merriment disappeared bit by bit from the younger elf's face. He didn't know the dark haired captain very well, but he had already learnt that he was one of the people who wore their hearts on their sleeve. Elvynd was not particularly skilled at hiding what he was thinking, and even a less observant person than he would have noticed that this was most likely the last place where the young captain wanted to be right now.   
  
The advisor turned back to the town in front of him and let his gaze wander over the buildings and the field, following the river southwards. He only knew roughly in what direction to look in the deepening twilight, and so he finally gave up with an inward sigh.  
"How far away is the other town?"  
  
Elvynd narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to spot the other settlement he knew to be beyond the hills to the south of Aberon, on the western side of the river.  
"Not far, sir," he answered eventually. "On a clear day you can see it from here without any trouble at all."  
  
"I see," Erestor nodded as he straightened his shoulders almost imperceptibly. "Then let us ride on before the humans close the town gates and refuse to let us pass."  
  
The other elves in the travelling party nodded, but before one of them could spur on his horse, he had raised a hand, stopping all activity in its tracks.  
  
"I know that Captain Elvynd has spoken to you about this before, and before him also Lord Glorfindel if I'm not very much mistaken," he began calmly, looking from one serious face to the next, "but I do not believe it will hurt if I repeat their words yet again. You know why we are here, and you also know that the humans of this town aren't exactly what one would call trusting or hospitable, at least not to members of our kind."  
  
The five guards nodded in unison, grave expressions on their faces, but even Erestor's sharp ears couldn't detect which one of them muttered a soft "When are they ever?" He pretended he hadn't heard the comment and continued, a serious glint in his eyes.  
  
"Nevertheless, the town of Aberon is our ally. We are here to talk, nothing more, and I do not expect open hostility or even violence, at least not in this town. I am, however," he added with an almost invisible smile, "not naïve or stupid. There is no telling how the inhabitants of the town will react to our arrival. If there is anything out of the ordinary, be it something you hear or see or even something you suspect, tell me or the captain. Our lord wishes us to find out what is happening here and to strengthen our ties with this town, but he does not expect us to trust the humans blindly. If one of you thinks there is danger looming, we will leave, immediately and without offering any explanations to anyone." He paused for a moment to give the five warriors time to absorb what he had just told them. "Do you understand?"  
  
Five mute nods were the only answer, and a moment later Elvynd nodded at his men after giving the dark haired advisor a small bow.   
"Alright," he told them with a slight smile. "Aleneth, you have been here before. Take point. Lord Erestor and I will bring up the rear."   
  
The thus addressed elf inclined his head to his captain and began to guide his horse over to the small path that wound down the ridge. The other four elves followed him after a minute, the grey and green tones of their clothing only adding to the rather disconcerting illusion that they and their horses simply disappeared into the growing darkness after a few dozen metres.   
  
When the riders had passed out of immediate earshot, Elvynd began to mirror their behaviour, closely followed by Erestor who patiently waited for the younger elf to start speaking. When they had reached the edge of the ridge and the beginning of the descent, the dark haired captain stopped his horse, his eyes large and dark in the dim light. It was clear that he did not really want to speak, but Erestor assumed that he viewed this to be his last chance before it would be too late once and for all.  
  
"You were right yesterday, my lord," he began without preamble. "I am worried. I do not know why, and I do not know from whom danger could be looming, but I do know that it is tied to this town. I have a bad feeling about this journey."  
  
Erestor waited for the younger elf to continue, but when it became obvious that he wouldn't do so any time soon, he narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to see the other's face more clearly.  
"You would have us turn back then?"  
  
Elvynd didn't answer immediately, but then he slowly and seriously nodded his head.  
"Yes, my lord. I would."  
  
"You have not by any chance spoken to Lord Glorfindel before we left Rivendell, have you?"  
  
A curious expression flittered over Elvynd's face that looked a lot like a mixture between a smile and a pained grimace.  
"Yes, I have, but that is not what I am talking about, sir." He took a deep breath and obviously struggled to find the right words. "Lord Glorfindel did speak with me concerning his doubts about this mission, yes, but fact is that I cannot guarantee your safety or that of my men should we encounter any serious opposition. I hesitate to lead them into such a situation."  
  
"Your concerns honour you, young one," Erestor smiled thinly. "I begin to see why Lord Glorfindel spoke highly of you. The seneschal tends to worry too much from time to time."  
  
"If you forgive me for saying so, my Lord Erestor, but that is not true, and you know it," Elvynd shook his head, surprising the other elf. "Lord Glorfindel is not one to worry needlessly. I admit that it is true that he threatened my men and me with pain, death, doom and a _yén _of night shifts should we let anything happen to you, but you know as well as I do that to do something like that is highly out of character for him. I am beginning to share his concerns, and, if I may be so frank, so are you, I believe."  
  
Erestor merely returned the younger elf's searching gaze, mentally filing away the information that while Elvynd might wear his heart on his sleeve, he most certainly wasn't unobservant or stupid. Another interesting piece of information was that Glorfindel had been more worried than he had thought.  
  
The councillor frowned inwardly. He usually did not ignore Glorfindel's misgivings or feelings, even though that was something he wouldn't even admit under the worst of tortures. His fair haired friend had developed keen senses over the past few millennia, senses that usually warned him of dangers and threats in a manner that was sometimes already bordering on mystical. Still, he would have been able to simply ignore his bad feelings for once, but in combination with Elrond's concerns and now those of young Elvynd he was really, truly, seriously beginning to feel anxious. And he had not even set a single foot into that town!  
  
"Yes, you are right, Captain," Erestor finally nodded, deciding that the other deserved at least his honesty. "I share your concerns, yet I hesitate to return home without even having tried to fulfil our mission."   
  
"We are yours to command, my lord," Elvynd bowed his head. "I shall do what you command, and so will my men. You know my thoughts on this matter."  
  
"I do now," Erestor agreed wryly.  
  
He fell silent for a moment, carefully weighing his options. He had been undecided the entire journey here, a feeling he thoroughly loathed. He had no small amount of pride for his ability to come to decisions quickly and without second-guessing them later, something that was a requirement for being a good advisor. The times when he had been indecisive in the past few _yéni _could be counted on two hands, and the number of times when he had actually doubted one of his own decisions was even smaller.  
  
Erestor hung his head inwardly. It appeared that Elrond and Glorfindel had been right, or at least partly so.  
  
"Alright," he finally said slowly. "You have convinced me, Captain. I suggest a compromise: We stay in Aberon for the night and have a short talk with the town council tomorrow morning. How long would we need to reach the neighbouring town?"  
  
"About four hours on horseback," Elvynd answered. "Less than two if you hurry."  
  
Erestor almost asked the captain if he was preparing himself for having to cover the distance at a full gallop, but decided against it after a moment. The answer to that was as obvious as the question was stupid.   
  
"That should give us enough time then," he said instead. "We can reach it by early afternoon if we do not tarry. I suggest we leave Aberon as soon as possible and travel to…"  
  
"Donrag."  
  
"…Donrag," Erestor nodded at Elvynd, inwardly more than a little displeased that he hadn't been able to remember the name immediately. "We can talk with the lord there and leave before dusk. We can then either return to Aberon or give the whole valley a wide berth. I doubt that there is a man in either town who could find us should we want to hide ourselves."  
  
"One night?" Elvynd summed up the other's words, not at all caring whether or not he sounded like an over-protective, thoroughly worried nervous wreck. It might be true (with the possible exception of the nervous wreck bit, of course), but he _really _had a bad feeling about this.  
  
"One night, Captain," Erestor nodded again. "Should anything occur that we judge to be threatening in any way, we will leave immediately, just as I told your men."  
  
"As you wish, my lord," the younger lord bowed his head. "One of my men will stand guard though, and one will remain with the horses. I do not wish to take any unnecessary risks. I have never lost one of my men through carelessness and I will not start now."  
  
"A wise precaution," the dark haired advisor agreed seriously. "From here the valley looks like an epitome of peace and tranquillity, but I do not trust this air of innocence. There is something else in the air; a faint hint of…"  
  
"…anger and fear," Elvynd finished his sentence. "Aye, my lord, I feel it, too."  
  
"Keep your eyes open," Erestor instructed the young captain firmly, beginning to steer his horse down the path. "Appearances can be deceiving."  
  
Elvynd smiled grimly as he urged his horse forward as well.   
"My family hails from Eregion, my lord. I will never forget a lesson for which many of my kin have paid with their blood and their lives."   
  
Erestor merely nodded wordlessly and allowed the younger elf to precede him, staring emotionlessly at his straight back that appeared almost rigid with tension beneath his grey cloak. No, none of those who had once called themselves the Mírdain of Eregion – or their descendents – would ever forget this particular lesson. He had actually forgotten that young Elvynd's family had fled from Sauron's armies; they were one of the few families that had survived the ruin of Celebrimbor's realm.  
  
Erestor wrenched his thoughts away from the memories of these dark, hopeless days and the faces of all those he had known who had not been as lucky as Elvynd's parents and grandparents and forced himself to concentrate on the present. A day, no more, and then he would obey his inner voice that urged him to turn around and return to Imladris.  
  
He slowly followed the younger elf down the dark path that would take them to the gates of the town of Aberon, trying to ignore the indistinct knowledge at the back of his mind, namely that history had the nasty habit of repeating itself, especially when you thought yourself to be prepared for all eventualities.  
  
Deciding that he didn't like the role of Annatar in the slightest, he spurred on his horse to follow Captain Elvynd, and in a matter of moments they had disappeared down the ridge.

  
  
  
  
  
**TBC...**

  
  
  
  
  
_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ion nín (S.) - my son  
yén (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
yéni (Q.) - pl. of yén  
  
  
  
  
_**Don't say it. They're morons, all of them. It's like watching a horror movie, when the pretty blonde girl walks into a room and everybody is yelling "He's hiding behind the door, idiot!!" •g• Only that is this case, they're dark haired and male and it's not a door but... Ah well, you know what I mean. •g• As always, the next chapter will be here in a week. My love for reviews has, if anything, only improved, so: Review? Please?  
  
  
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**Additional A/N:  
  
AngelMouse5** - Don't worry about that. We're all busy, and I honestly don't expect anyone to review every chapter. Darth Real Life usually manages to get in the way. •g• I don't know if I can tell you more about the "potion incident" though. I'm rather sure neither Legolas nor Celylith would be overly amused! •g•  
**Deana** - LOL, yes, poor Legolas indeed. I bet he's already wishing he'd stayed in Mirkwood with all the nice little spiders and trolls and orcs... An incomparably safer environment if you ask me... •g•  
**Nikara** - •innocent look• I have no idea why you're having that particular feeling. I really can't explain it. Aragorn & Co. wouldn't be THAT reckless, now would they? •g• Stupid questions, isn't it?  
**Cosmic Castaway** - •g• Sorry about not updating sooner. And I feel really, really lucky. Promise. •g• It's an honour, that's for sure... My alter ego is very flattered, too. Thought you'd like to know. •g•  
**HarryEstel** - Uhm, well, let me think about it. Erestor ... Elvynd ... the rest of the travelling party ... walking into the Lion's Den ... yup, I guess you can say that! •g• Great to hear that you liked the Elrohir-Legolas conversation. I always think it unfair that only Legolas and Aragorn have these talks.  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - I think we all feel sorry for Elvynd. You could give me what you wanted and I still wouldn't want his job. •g• I just hope you weren't too late for class or anything! I actually believe it would be better if you waited another day or so before reviewing - I don't want to get you into trouble!  
**Alilacia** - Who, me? Evil? Moi? Never! •g• Well, yeah, you caught me. Well done. Oh, and the whole tree thing did work - but not all the way, if you know what you mean. You don't expect Gaerîn to be suitably impressed by that stunt, do you? •g• Elvynd meant "both" when he said "yes". And of course he's vague! He's an elf, what did you expect? •winces• I can only imagine what Arwen would say if she heard that Aragorn sold her oldest son (and his soul) for a bow. Somehow I doubt she'd be very understanding... •g• LOL, the Measterlings - a side dish? Could I have some mint sauce with that? •g•  
**Jeeg** - Don't apologise for telling me what you think! I mean it! I like reviews like yours ten times better than a "Well done update soon". You are right, btw. I don't like it when people "baby" Estel too much, and I regret if it seemed over-the-top last chapter. The only thing I can think of as a kind of excuse is that ME is not to be confused with modern times. It's hard to actually say what period of our time would be comparable, but I think the late Middle Ages would do, when the usual method of treating mildly complicated breaks was amputation, thousands of people died of plagues and infections and more than half of the women during childbirth. Elrond knows how "fragile" humans per se are (especially in comparison with elves) and that even elvish medicine and "elf magic" has its limits. •shrugs• But, essentially, you're right. I just tried to make excuses. •g• Thank you very, very much for your review, and never hesitate to bring such things to my attention!  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Hmm, I honestly don't know if chapter 7 was shorter than the others. Let me see. Ch. 6 was about 16 1/2 pages long, ch. 7 13 and ch. 8 is 15 pages long. You're right! •shakes head• I didn't really notice. Most chapter are around 14/15 pages long, so well done! I'm very impressed... Oh, and about those two words, "bodrozvachski zhaltziet"? I have absolutely NO idea what language that is, but I can tell you that it's not German. There are almost no German words that end on "-i". "-ei" would be different, but there's no "-i". I would guess Polish or Russian, or another one of the Slavic languages. Sorry I couldn't help you.**  
Elvendancer** - LOL, what about Celebrity Deathmatch? Gaerîn vs. Hithrawyn! •shudders• That wouldn't be a pretty sight, now would it... They're really a lot alike, I give you that... Even though I think Hithrawyn really hates our Intrepid Duo. Gaerîn just ... likes to imtimidate people, I guess. •g•  
**Just Jordy** - Well, I guess the first thing Aragorn does when he wakes up is insulting Glorfindel. We all need a hobby, I guess. •g• Glad to hear that you liked the Elrohir-Legolas talk. They needed to have one, too. They hadn't spoken in ages, poor elfsies. •huggles them•  
**Grumpy** - LOL, yes, maybe. Once firestick might not be enough, though. I think you'd need several. About a hundred, after that even they would have to notice SOMETHING. •g• And if the birds, and especially the thrushes, have any sense at all, they will leave Imladris and never - come - back. •g• Don't you think?  
**Arrina** - Gaerîn knows a little Dwarvish. Just the interesting things, I guess. •g• I'm a little surprised that Legolas drank the potion, too. I hadn't really expected him to, but I guess even he is growing up. Finally. •g• About that whole election thing: I'm afraid you misunderstood me. When I woke up Wednesday morning and heard the news, I almost shot myself. Don't take it personally. I have learnt a long time ago that there are only two things you must never discuss with a friend if you want to stay friends: Politics and religion. Everyone is entitled to his/her own opinion, after all. •g•  
**Suzi** - Suzi? Let me think.... I think I knew a Suzi once, a long time ago. But she's been eaten by a giant mutant star goat or something like that. Or has she? •grins and huggles• Suzi! It's great to see you again! I missed you and Drákon and all the others... Don't worry about reviewing. I'm just glad the goat didn't get you. •g•  
**Crippled Raven** - I was indeed praying for aliens to take both of them away. And for the rest: Let's just say that the world has gone stark raving mad. •shakes head• Why it always has to do that I will never understand... •g• And I know what you mean. Even though my name isn't that common, we had three of us in my year, and most of the time we were in the same classes. It was annoying to say the least. •g• I might find Elvynd a girlfriend, btw - IF he managed to survive this whole thing. He's not a canon character, so "if" is the main word here. •g• Don't you remember that really hot sommer? 2003? I spent six weeks in Essex, and it was HOT! I mean hot, about 32 C for more than a month! You can't have missed something as rare as THAT! And don't remind me of this summer. I'm still trying to forget it. •frowns• I nearly drowned. Twice. •g•  
**Marbienl** - I know, I know. It's horrible. Don't remind me. I'm trying to forget the whole past 7 days. •g• I'm sure you did well, though. As long as the exams are over... •grimaces• Boy, do I hate exams. •g• Acalith's name doesn't mean anything. I mean, it might, but I don't design them mean something, if you know what I mean. Only the elven names mean something, not the names of humans. Ah, you meant the Axolotl (thanks for the second mail, btw. The pics are really great!)! It's cute, isn't it!? I haven't tried the recipe yet, but it does sound delicious! I'll try it around Christmas, when I have a little more time for things like that... •licks lips• Hmm, sounds yummy! Sledgie, huh? That would be "Schlittlein" or "Schlittchen" in German, I think. But, technically speaking, there is no diminutive of the word "Schlitten", so it would simple be "kleiner Schlitten". •shrugs• German is a strange language, I know. "One small step for elvendom, but a big one for Elrohir!"? Well, I guess you could say that... •g• I'm not saying anything about the Potion Incident, however. I may be insane, but I'm not suicidal. •g•  
**TrustingFriendship** - You have my sympathies. You really do. I for my parts have abandoned my plan to study in the US next year. I think I'll go to Canada instead, or Spain or the UK. Or Australia. Australia would be nice. •dreamy look• As I said in the A/N, I can't promise to spare the lives of Elvynd and the others. I am still writing that scene, and if I'm completely honest, it doesn't look good. •takes a quick look• Nope, not really. Don't worry about Erestor, though. He's canon.  
**Snow-Glory** - He might need both, you know. First a hug and then an adventure. Or both at the same time. •g• That should be interesting... •g• Scary, dangerous, strange and weird, but interesting nonetheless... •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - Who doesn't adore Erestor! He's .. adorable? •winces• I know, I know, that was a BAD joke. LOL, Mandos might have put a new curse on them. Not the "Curse of the Noldor" but rather the "Curse of the Idiots". Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? •g• Are you suggesting my stories are CHEERLESS, then? I mean, come on! There are tons of jokes in it! •frowns• At least I think so. •g• I'm sorry about the cliffy though. There won't be a "real" one till ch. 10. There is a small one in ch. 9 though, don't worry. And your TV can't be that bad? If it is, I'll strike Canada off my list of possible countries for my year abroad... •g•  
**Ventinari** - Hmm, let me think. "What's the point of having elven senses and forsight if you don't listen to them"... I think the main reason is our amusement. We love to see them get into such situations. And then there's my alter ego, of course. She's simply evil. •g• Glorfindel might be a tiny bit displeased when he hears that Erestor has got himself into trouble, you're right. •pats Glorfindel• Don't worry, I won't hurt him - much. •evil grin•  
**KLMeri** - Are you accusing me of making you blood, death, and mayhem-happy? I really must protest! It's not my fault! I don't even want them to get themselves into all these situations - I even try to stop them! Really! •g• I am in fact not sure if Elladan is going to leave. I am right now contemplating making him stay behind. They are always together, after all... •thinks• Well, we'll see. LOL, I like your list. I hadn't realised I was THAT bad...  
**Elitenschwein** - Das ist ja gar keine review mehr! Das ist ein Roman, oder zumindest eine Novelle! Danke sehr! •verbeugt sich• Ich muss leider zugeben, dass ich noch keinen Charakter-Raum habe. Ich muss mir allerdings dringend einen anschaffen, dann koennte ich sie ab und zu auch mal rauslassen. So ist die Fluchtgefahr leider zu hoch... •g• Wie ich in den A/N sagte, ich lege mich bei Elvynd nicht fest. Kann sein, dass er ueberlebt. Andererseits... •fieses Grinsen• Ich nehme an, dass das dt. Aequivalent einfach "Heiler" ist. Ich bin nicht sicher, denn ich habe alle Buecher inkl. Hobbit und Silmarillion nur auf Englisch gelesen. Wie unser regierender Buergermeister zu sagen pflegt: Und das ist auch gut so! Die Uebersetzungen muessen furchtbar sein... Du bist uebrigens nicht die einzige, die bei der Teonvan-Aragorn Folterszene zusammengezuckt ist. Ich habe es wirklich geschafft, die zu schreiben ohne sie zu lesen, so furchtbar fand ich sie. Und das soll mir mal einer nachmachen! •g• Ich mache mich aber auch manchmal ueber Aragorn lustig, v.a. im 3. Film. Jack (mein manchmal partner-in-crime) nennt ihn mehr oder weniger liebevoll "den dummen Waldschrat". Klar kenne ich Travis! Hab' allerdings lange nichts mehr von denen gehoert - gibt's die eigentlich noch?  
**Barbara Kennedy** - Soft-tissue damage, huh? I have to look that one up - it surely sounds crue... I mean, interesting! Sounds very interesting... •g• And I am fully aware of the fact that Aragorn got off lightly, don't worry. There's more to come ... eventually... •evil grin•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - Don't worry about that. GCSEs (no matter whether the real or not) are most certainly more important. LOL, anti-elf-lord-protection-duty-itis? That sounds very, very interesting. I think most of Rivendell's (and Mirkwood's) guards would test positive... •g• And it can be fatal, I see! We really need to develop a vaccine! I hope everything goes well with your GCSEs! •huggles•  
**Tychen** - Just give it up. They won't listen to you. They aren't listening to anyone, including their own senses. Yes, they ARE morons. •g• And don't worry about Legolas and the others. At least some of them will be fit enough to launch a rescue attempt - or something like it. •g•  
**Radbooks** - To my shame I have to admit that Elvynd's name doesn't really mean anything. He appeared the first time in AEFAE, and since I didn't know enough Sindarin back then, I just used a name generator. I looked it up a while ago, and the only thing that makes the remotes bit of sense is something like "Elf-noses" or "Elf-capes (geogr.)". Stop laughing! I know that it doesn't make any sense at all... •blushes• So no, his name doesn't mean anything. Either that or his parents were drunk. •g• I haven't read that story, but I will as soon as I have some time to spare. So ... sometime next spring, I guess. •g•  
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - Sure it's broken! We know that, Elrond knows that, the whole of Rivendelll knows it, and Aragorn probably knows it too, but he will not admit it! •sighs• Stubborn idiot. •g• It's nice to hear that you like Elrohir. I like him too - of course - and I thought that he and Legolas needed to have a conversation, too. It's not fair that they talk so rarely, is it? •g• Well, maybe I will write that story, some day. Just not any time soon. I really don't like children. •g•  
**Andi-Black** - Ha! It worked! The shameless blackmail really worked! Yay Nili! •throws confetti into air• Uhm... •calms down• Sorry about that. I'm still astonished that it actually worked. •g• Just how did you know that Erestor & Co. won't listen to their feelings of pain, doom and dread? You must be a genius, or psychic. Or both. •g• "The Chemistry Incident", huh? I hope you didn't kill anyone? •huggles• Thanks a lot for taking the time to review! I love reviews! •g•  
  
**I hope FF-net will allow me to post this at all. It's been acting very strangely lately... I know, I know. What else is new? •g•**


	9. Something In the Dark

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**   
A/N:**

**Well, I _could _try and beg your forgiveness for keeping you waiting for so long. Since I know you guys, however, I won't, because I'm rather sure that it'd be immensely pointless.** **•g•**

**So** **let's just say that I did not do it on purpose - it wasn't even my alter ego's fault for once. I had simply one hell of a week, with family crises, deadlines and more bureaucratic** **problems than anyone should ever experience in the span of a few days. Apart from that, I discovered that I have exactly 12 more days to provide all sorts of papers (including the satellite pictures of Lapland) to apply for a place at a foreign university. •grimaces• These people are deliberately trying to make my life miserable, I am completely sure about it.**

**   
Okay, I know that you're not really interested in my excuses or anything of the like. Therefore I give you chapter 9 without further ado - well, without much further ado. •g• As I said last chapter, this is "The Calm Before The Storm II", so to speak, and the imminent doom becomes so palpable that Erestor** **& Co. should have bumped into it by now. •g• Other than** **that,** **we see Gasur, Salir and our evil villainous lady again and they - in the manner of true villains - promptly discuss their plans. Oh, and we have a little bit of wood-elf angst. That's always nice, isn't it? •g• ****   
**

****** One last thing: If you find my little reference to The Simpsons I just couldn't resist, you get a cookie! •g• Oh, and FF-net is screwing with my formatting again. Oh joy.   
**

******Have fun and review, please!**

* * *

Chapter 9 **   
****   
**

It was already late at night, but the time of day notwithstanding the large house on top of the hill was still brightly lit by many candles and lamps that flickered slightly in the cold evening air. It was not an unusual sight, and besides, most of the town's inhabitants had long ago stopped wondering about what went on here. To ask unnecessary questions was not only stupid but also a rather foolproof method of suicide.

Inside the regal-looking building, in a rather small room that branched off from the suite of rooms that was inhabited by the house's owner, a dark haired woman was sitting at a carved table that was laden with food and drink. How long she had already been sitting there was hard to tell, since the food, already cooling, had hardly been touched, and even the goblet that was filled with a white, nearly golden wine was almost filled to the rim.

For a long time it seemed as if she was unaware of what was going on around her, and, in a way, that was even true. The young woman's thoughts were elsewhere, where exactly, that was hard to say. The fingers of her left hand played with the rim of her cup, following the smooth curve of the metal round and round. It was a long hand, white and smooth and long with even longer nails and a golden ring on the middle finger that gleamed brightly in the candlelight.

The ring looked strange on the slim finger, for it was too large and bulky to have been crafted for the hand of a lady. Its surface was a rectangle with rounded edges, but instead of a gem or a semiprecious stone as one would expect on a trinket a woman would wear there was a coat of arms etched into the gleaming surface, depicting a bridge of all things. The piece of jewellery appeared to be old, even very old, but the craftsmanship was exquisite. It would have looked perfectly normal on a nobleman's hand, but on the slim finger of the woman it looked definitely out of place.

The fingers were still following the curve of the metal, and not even when a knock sounded on the wooden door at her back did the hand still. For a few moments, the young woman did not react at all, her thought apparently still bent on something only she knew. After a while she slowly raised her head and for the first time looked at her hand, and finally she raised her voice ever so slightly and curtly commanded the person waiting outside the door to enter.

The heavy, thick door swung open almost soundlessly, and two men entered the room, both of them unarmed. While one of them, a grey haired man clad in costly robes, seemed to find nothing unusual about this situation, the other man obviously had to stop his fingers from twitching uneasily. His hands that were encircled by leather bracers moved minutely, always returning to the empty space at his left hip where his sword would usually be.

The older man strode into the room, leaving it to his companion to close the door behind the two of them. The soldier closed the door with an impatient move of his hand before he turned back around and gave the other man a look that was chilly enough to give a fire-drake a cold. Under different circumstances he might have said something, but right now he contented himself with another frigid look into the older man's direction before he followed his example and gave the woman sitting at the table a deep bow.

"My lady."

The dark haired woman slowly raised her gaze from the apparently greatly fascinating sight of her wine-filled goblet to fix large, dark blue eyes on the two men in front of her.   
"You are late. Why?"

Gasur did his best to suppress a grin and bowed his head to hide all signs of mirth. The young woman had addressed Salir, not him, so the seneschal would have to answer. It was only fair, too, because they wouldn't have been late if he hadn't insisted on questioning him beforehand. The dark haired captain growled inwardly. He did not enjoy being toyed with, and being toyed with by a man like Salir was even less enjoyable than usual.

"A small irregularity, nothing that was within my ability to control, my lady," the grey haired man answered his mistress' question. "The messenger had some trouble reaching our town undetected."

Acalith stared coldly at the two men, none of her feelings visible on her face.   
"I see," she finally said slowly. "Were there any other problems?"

Salir began to assure his lady that everything else had gone smoothly, but Gasur was hardly listening. Every time he was standing in front of the Lady Acalith he was astonished at just how beautiful she was. She was, he corrected himself inwardly, in fact the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had travelled the northern part of Middle-earth quite a bit. The soldier lowered his head quickly so he wouldn't be caught scrutinising his lady, and simply studied the slender figure sitting in an armchair that seemed to be several numbers too large for her.

That was in fact the first thing about which he was always surprised when he saw her: She was smaller than he remembered. It was doubtless her personality that made her appear taller, he thought, surprising himself. He was a man, after all, and a warrior at that, and he paid little heed to what women said or, the Gods forbid, thought. The dark haired woman in front of him was an exception to that rule he had followed diligently for most of his life, which was yet another reason why he was fascinated by her.

There were two other important reasons, of course, and one of them was her beauty. He had no trouble seeing why her late husband had married her – every man could appreciate the woman's dark, curly hair and her clear blue eyes. Her skin was white, almost as white as an elf's, something that was only accentuated by the dark gowns she seemed to prefer. Yes, Lady Acalith was beautiful, but the thing that set her apart from other beautiful women he had known was the aura that surrounded her. He had known many powerful men and had worked for quite a few of them, but none had possessed her aura of quiet menace.

And that, he mused while Salir was still elaborately explaining why their late arrival was not his fault, was the second reason: Her ruthlessness. On first glance, she only looked like a young, beautiful woman, an appearance that even withstood closer scrutiny – if one did not look at her eyes, that was. They were impossibly large, framed by dark lashes and of a twilight-blue colour, but there all hints of beauty ended. They were empty and cold, more so than the eyes of any woman he had ever met or seen.

Looking into her eyes, Gasur thought with a small, inward smile, was like gazing into a troubled pond. You could stand there all day, expecting to see the pond's bottom as soon as the waters had calmed down, but every time you thought you could see something, it was snatched back by a new wave that rippled the surface of the pool. Often had he wondered if there was anything hidden behind that impregnable wall of hers that seemed to exist between her soul and her eyes, and he still had not come to a conclusion. She was either incredibly adept at hiding what she was thinking or she simply did not possess a soul, or remorse or a conscience or anything of the like.

Gasur was hard-pressed to say which possibility he found more attractive.

The dark haired man was still gazing solemnly at his lady when Salir's words that had been nothing more than a faint buzzing in the background of his thoughts trailed off, and with an inward headshake he forced himself to return to the present. He had never heard of someone having been caught staring at their lady, but he was rather sure that the penalty for such brazen impudence was nothing he would enjoy in the slightest.

"Alright," the object of his scrutiny said with an unwilling, short-tempered flick of her head. "Where is this messenger you speak of?"

"Outside, my lady," Salir answered with a small bow of his head. "I did not think you would want to speak with him in person…"

"You were mistaken, Salir," the woman informed her seneschal coldly. "I do want to speak with him in person. We have been waiting for his arrival for days, and I will not take the risk of missing something important."

If Salir was hurt by this implication, he certainly did not show it. He merely bowed and turned back to the door, while Gasur had a hard time hiding the grin that wanted to spread on his face. A little criticism had never hurt anyone – or so they said – and to watch Salir being criticised by none other than Lady Acalith was more satisfying than it should be.

A few seconds trickled by until the older man returned, closely followed by a man who seemed to be torn between being frozen with fear and staring with wide, admiring eyes at the slender woman in the carved chair. In the end he settled for being afraid, though.

"My lady," the man bowed his head, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his boot tips.

"Tell the Lady Acalith what you told me," Salir instructed the man curtly.

The messenger looked up, his eyes growing even wider if such a thing was even possible. After some moments of opening and closing his mouth without actually saying anything he finally seemed to pluck up his courage and found his voice.

"They arrived a few hours ago, my lady, at dusk. There are seven of them, a delegate sent by their lord and six guards."

Acalith didn't say anything immediately, giving Gasur the time to once again wonder about the elves' stupidity. He hadn't had a very lofty opinion of them in the first place, but the dealings he'd had with their accursed race in the past had led him to believe that they were a crafty, dangerous people. He grinned inwardly. Only six guards. It would be almost too easy.

The dark haired woman nodded slowly, her thoughts hidden behind her bottomless eyes.   
"Only seven, you say?"

"Yes, my lady," the messenger answered, slightly emboldened by her reasonable tone of voice. Lady Acalith was quick-tempered and easy to anger, but she was also a strong, cunning leader in times like these.

"Tell me about the elves," she went on, oblivious to the man's thoughts – not that she would have cared much about them had she known them. "The one leading them, what is his name?"

The messenger frowned slightly as he tried to remember the information he had been given.   
"Erestor, I believe," he finally said hesitantly. "I cannot remember the name of the captain who was leading the guards, but it was something similar."

The young woman seemed to be familiar with the name, for she cocked her head slightly to the side and gave her seneschal a look full of intrigued amusement.   
"That would be Lord Erestor then, don't you think, Salir?"

"Indeed it would be, my lady," the grey haired man agreed with a small nod. "I wonder why the elf lord is sending his chief councillor here."

"That is a question that interests me very much as well," Acalith stated emotionlessly, the only sign of her inner agitation her hand that was once again beginning to play with the rim of her cup. "He would not have come if the matter had not been important."

The men in the room knew better than to offer their opinions, and for a long time it was silent while Acalith contemplated her options. She had spent the past years wisely, and had done everything in her power to collect information about those who might one day become her adversaries – which meant about two thirds of the surrounding settlements, no matter how remote they might be.

It hadn't been hard to gather information about the people in Aberon (the messenger standing in front of her was the ultimate proof for that), or even about the other human settlements. With the Elves of Rivendell, however, it had been incomparably harder. They had had to rely on the reports of men who had stopped there once, and no one they had been able to find had spent there more than three or four days. It wasn't the fact that the elves discouraged anyone from staying longer (from what she had heard, the Lord of Rivendell did just the opposite), but rather the fact that most humans weren't comfortable in the presence of the fair folk.

It was something she could entirely sympathise with, but it still left her at a critical disadvantage. There were only two things she could have done to find out more, both possibilities she had deemed to be impracticable in the end, no matter how appealing they might have been. One had been to actually send a travelling party to Rivendell with the orders to stay there for a night or two and find out as much as they could. She had discarded that idea though, for, even considering how little they knew about him, it was common knowledge that the Lord of Rivendell was no fool. Her men would have been found out almost immediately.

The other option had been disproportionately more interesting. She was usually not someone who placed a great deal of importance on rumours and hearsay, but the people to the north were of the opinion that the Rangers were not only strange, dangerous folk but also friendly with the Elves. She had seriously contemplated getting hold of a ranger and question him for a while, and had almost decided to do so, partly encouraged by the strange gleam in her new captain's eyes when she had mentioned the possibility to him. Salir, however, had impressed on her the possible consequences of such an action should it become public knowledge. As unhappy as she had been to have to let her idea go, she had to agree with her seneschal that the last thing she wanted was a bunch of vengeful rangers in her town who were seeking to avenge their comrade.

So, she concluded darkly, it all came down to the fact that they knew precious little about the Elves in general and their lord and his staff in particular, but what they did know were the names of his most prominent councillors. Acalith smiled grimly to herself. She had an excellent memory which she had hidden for far too long along with her intelligence, and there was not much that slipped her mind. The names of Lord Erestor, Lord Elrond's chief advisor, or that of Lord Glorfindel, his seneschal, were most definitely not among them.

She finally returned her attention to the matter at hand, giving the messenger a questioning stare that almost made the man cringe openly.   
"What are their plans?"

"There it becomes a little bit complicated, my lady," Salir inserted smoothly, either because to distinguish himself in front of his mistress or because he saw that the messenger was desperately fumbling for words. "It appears that they only wish to stay for a day."

"One day?" Acalith repeated, a dark eyebrow arched incredulously.

"Aye, my lady," Salir nodded. "From what our sources tell us, they wish to stay till midday tomorrow before travelling here. They want to return home tomorrow evening or early the day after tomorrow."

"Do they now," his lady mumbled thoughtfully, the fingers of her left hand beginning to slide over the smooth, curved metal of her goblet a little faster. "So they are coming here."

"All we need is your order, my lady, and we will prepare a reception they will not soon forget," Gasur spoke up for the first time. "They will be overwhelmed and in bonds before they even know what is happening."

"Do use your head, Captain," the young woman chided the soldier calmly, something that surprised and displeased Salir to no end. He had expected her to rip off that insufferable man's head for the interruption – at least figuratively, if nothing else.

"My lady?"

Acalith raised her gaze from her cup and gave the dark haired man a cool look.   
"I know of your less-than-hospitable feelings for the fair folk, and I do not care about them at all, but do not forget that I do not want an open war with their lord. If word gets out that they disappeared after having reached our town, the Lord of Rivendell will retaliate. And word _will _get out. There is always somebody who can't keep his mouth shut."

"That can be prevented, my lady," Gasur offered calmly, returning the young woman's look evenly. "Dead people tend to have trouble talking to anyone."

His lady studied the dead serious, completely unaffected face of the man in front of him, dimply aware of her seneschal's indignant expression. It took her only a moment to realise that the captain was indeed more than ready to slit the throat of every person in this town, without even the slightest doubt or remorse, and a slow smile spread over her face.   
"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Captain, but I think there is another way."

She turned back to the messenger whose eyes had grown considerably larger while he had been listening to the conversation (and praying that none of the people present in the room remembered that he was there) and gave him a small nod.   
"They will leave around midday?"

"Yes … yes, my lady," the man stammered slightly. "They want to have a talk with the council tomorrow morning and with the trading guild, I believe, and then they are planning to come here. They should leave Aberon no later than an hour or two after noon."

"Excellent," Acalith nodded again, her hands intertwining for a moment or two, as if she had just realised that they had been fidgeting for most of the time. "That should be more than enough time."

She fell silent for a moment, and just when Salir had been about to speak up, she raised her head again and looked at him and the dark haired captain. In the flickering candlelight her eyes seemed to be filled with a flickering light, the dancing flames lending the dark, cold orbs slivers of pure gold.

"As soon as they have reached the small forest, they will have passed out of Aberon's direct line of sight. To reach they will need about an hour. Add to that at least another hour to ensure that no one here will notice something and you have a window of about an hour or an hour and a half in which you can strike." Salir inclined his head slightly, and she turned to Gasur who was standing a little to the left of her, an anticipatory glint in his eyes. "Will that be enough?"

A rare smile spread over the dark haired captain's face, making him look like a predator that enjoyed toying with its prey before pouncing.   
"More than enough, my lady."

"Don't forget that you mustn't bring them here before dusk," Salir reminded the younger man somewhat condescendingly. "Or all will be for naught."

Gasur slowly and carefully turned his head and looked the seneschal in the eye.   
"I will not forget, sir."

If Salir noticed the latent ambiguity, he did not show it. He merely continued to smile at him in that special way that never failed to enrage the younger man, and if their lady had not chosen this moment to speak, Gasur might have been tempted to do something which he would most certainly not have regretted, but what would have been rather inconvenient right now.

"You will leave tomorrow an hour before noon," she informed the men, the cool calmness that always impressed Gasur colouring her words. "I expect both of you in my study two hours earlier with your exact plans."

The two men and the messenger who had rather successfully managed to blend into the scenery gave her identical deep bows, and when it became clear that their lady had finished and did not require their services anymore, they turned to leave. Gasur was the last to leave the room, and he stopped on the threshold when Acalith's soft voice bid him to wait.

"Captain."

"My lady?" The soldier turned back around, his face emotionless.

The young woman gave him a long look. The golden highlights had disappeared from her eyes, and the coldness that had replaced them surprised even the dark haired man.   
"I need the envoy alive. You would do well to remember that."

Gasur bowed his head, realising how foolish he had been to think that she would not hear about the little incident in the warehouses.   
"I will, my lady."

Acalith nodded, her eyes travelling to the ring on her finger as she continued.   
"The guards travelling with him, however, are a nuisance." She raised her head again, cold-blooded calculation mixing with the coldness in her eyes. "See to it that it is eliminated."

A smile spread over the Gasur's face that seemed to express pure delight, and he bowed deeply before his mistress.   
"Gladly, my lady."

Acalith dismissed him with another long look and a wave of her hand and he left the room, the smile still bright on his lips.

* * *

The door opened about an inch, a low creak sounding in the hallway. The hand that was barely visible on the dark wood froze when the door hinges protested loudly, and for several long moments neither it nor the door moved at all. After a few seconds an eye appeared in the gap, carefully peering down the corridor. 

Its owner needed a while until he was satisfied that no one had in fact seen or heard anything, and even longer until he was reasonably certain that there was no one lurking behind a tapestry or a statue. Finally the door was pushed open a little wider while the hand was withdrawn, and the figure of a young man stepped out of the room.

Aragorn stopped for a few moments, listening intently, and when it became apparent that there was still nobody aware of his presence, he slowly reached behind him and very, very carefully closed the door, wincing slightly when another low creak could be heard. It should not creak thus, he thought darkly. He was sure he had oiled the hinges no more than … well, now that he thought about it, it had been a few months. Or years.

He was getting careless, he thought darkly to himself while he slowly and carefully began to tiptoe down the corridor. When he had been younger, he had always taken great care to ensure that his door did not creak even the tiniest bit, but now, now he had been away from home too long. He couldn't even remember the exact time when he had in fact oiled the hinges of his door. It had most likely been a long time ago, he mused, a sudden sadness filling him. To him it almost seemed like the memory of a former life, when he had been so much younger and more innocent.

The young ranger forced his thoughts away from that topic and stopped at the end of the hallway, carefully peering down both directions before choosing the right corridor. The sun had not risen yet, and would not do so for another hour or two, so most of the hallways of the Last Homely House were empty and deserted. There was, however, always the possibility of someone coming across him by chance – in the worst possible case, a healer – and so he had to be careful. Very careful.

He had learned as a young child that it was almost impossible to sneak up on an elf, even an unsuspecting one, even if one was feeling completely well. As unhappy as he was to admit it, he was _not _feeling completely well at the moment, even though that was definitely something he was not willing to admit publicly. The way he felt at the moment there was the definite possibility that he would stumble over someone without hearing or seeing anything.

Aragorn stopped for a moment, both to listen to his surroundings for a few moments and to give his tightly bandaged right wrist a dark look. He raised his arm to be able to look at it properly, idly wondering if his father was actually planning to fulfil his threat and really secure the bandage with a chain should he attempt to fiddle with it. He snorted darkly. Broken, ha! The wrist was not broken, merely a little sprained, and he should know, it was _his _wrist, after all! There had been absolutely no need to splint it and wrap a few miles of bandages around it almost up to his elbow, and then threaten him with rather interesting things should he disobey his father's orders and remove the bandage.

The ranger gave his hand another dark look, deciding to somehow avenge himself on his father in the near future (though when or in what way, he honestly could not tell), and started to move again, carefully setting one foot in front of the other. By the time he had reached the end of the corridor – a distance he would, under normal circumstances, have covered in less than twenty seconds – he was slightly out of breath, something for which he had no explanation whatsoever. Even his father had agreed with him that none of his ribs had been broken (which was very nice for a change), but that fact notwithstanding he felt as if something large and very strong was following him around and slowly but surely squeezing the air out of his lungs.

'That might be connected to the fact that you were bashed against a stone wall with enough force to break down the Black Gate, idiot.' Aragorn frowned at his inner voice, deciding that it was not a good thing that it was beginning to sound like a mixture between Elladan and his father. Considering his luck, it was probably the first symptom of a terrible mental illness that would result in him believing that he was a pumpkin.

He was still amusing himself with this mental image when he looked behind him for one last time and finally turned back to the door in front of which he had stopped. The man quickly reached out, grasped the handle and opened the door, half expecting it to creak as well. It did not, however, and with a small sigh of relief he carefully pushed it open far enough so he could slip through.

The room he was entering was dark, even to his eyes which had become accustomed to the almost complete darkness that still lay over the corridors. There was a very, very faint sliver of something resembling light over at the other end of the room, and Aragorn decided after a moment that it had to be the gap between the heavy curtains that had been pulled in front of the windows. The light of the pre-dawn hours filtered into the room, but it was still not enough to illuminate it sufficiently for him to see.

Aragorn waited another few moments for his eyes to adjust to the almost complete darkness filling the room, and finally capitulated with an inward smile. Praying that the owner of the room hadn't left anything sharp and/or heavy lying on the floor, he slowly began to move forward, doing his best not to stumble. He had never liked not seeing where he was going, and more than once he half expected to fall flat on his face. To his unending surprise, however, he actually managed to cross the room without stumbling or running into anything, and a certain sense of satisfaction began to spread inside of him when his left hand touched something which he quickly identified as one of the carved bed posts.

He allowed himself a quick grin as his fingers slowly followed the pole to the bedframe. At least he hadn't run straight into the bed; that was something, wasn't it? A few moments later he had found what he supposed to be the bed-head, and when he was staring hard enough into the darkness in front him, he could even make out a blurry, rather indistinct shape.

Aragorn grinned wickedly as he reached out to touch the sleeping figure's shoulder, but as soon as his fingers touched the other being, several things seemed to happen at once. Before he had even time to blink, his left wrist was seized in one steely hand while another grabbed his shirt with enough force to pull him forward several inches. A moment later he was roughly lifted off his feet and pushed against the wall, his back slamming against the carved stone. The impact sent a rush of pain through his entire body, but before he could gather enough breath to protest, something cold and smooth and very sharp was pressed against his neck, and all desire to move or talk left him at once.

For long moments it was silent while the man hardly dared to breathe. Just when Aragorn thought that he could identify the carving at his back by the way it was digging into his back, the shape that was holding him up moved slightly and the hands keeping him motionless relaxed minutely.

"Aragorn?"

The young ranger felt himself beginning to nod but stopped himself just in time. Moving anything above his breastbone seemed like a very bad idea right about now.

"You know," he began, carefully avoiding moving his head even an inch, "A simple 'Go away and let me sleep' would have sufficed."

The hands on his wrist and shirt released him abruptly, allowing him to drop to the floor. There was movement in the inky darkness before him, and a second later a small spark could be seen, accompanied by the sound of a flint striking metal. A faintly hissing noise was audible when the wick of a candle caught fire, and a moment later Aragorn found himself face to face with a blond wood-elf who was holding a candle in the one of his hands and a dagger in the other. The elf looked torn between shock and indignation, with a good measure of disbelief thrown in for good measure.

"What in the name of all the Valar and Valier are you doing here, Aragorn?! Do you have a death wish? Has no one ever taught you not to sneak up on people while they're sleeping?"

Aragorn stopped rubbing his neck and returned the glare the elven prince was giving him.   
"Is there a reason why you are sleeping with a dagger under your pillow? If it is because of the monster under your bed, don't worry. I scared it off when I was eight."

Legolas, who had been about to say more, closed his mouth with a small snap as his eyes came to rest on the knife in his right hand. He looked at it somewhat perplexedly, as if he was seeing it for the first time, and finally raised his head to look back at Aragorn.   
"I have no idea."

Aragorn gave the elf an incredulous stare.   
"You have no idea?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Legolas snapped and hastily put the knife down. He had to stop his hands from shaking slightly when he lit more candles, the thought of what he would almost have done sending cold shivers down his back. He finally sat back down on his bed and picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor. "Even though I might be repeating myself: What are you doing here?"

"Getting myself almost killed, apparently," Aragorn answered wryly as he took a few steps forward and flopped down onto the bed as well. "Originally I had planned to pay you a little visit, though."

"A visit?" Legolas repeated sceptically. "The sun has not even risen yet!"

"That's the point," Aragorn explained patiently. "At this time of day, the healers are sleeping in their lairs or wherever it is they rest. _Ada _was rather adamant about me having to rest for a few days, so who knows when I can leave my room without being dragged back."

Legolas merely gave the man an exasperated look and ran a hand over his face, brushing strands of wayward hair out of his eyes. He should have known Aragorn would make an appearance, shouldn't he? After the young man had woken up yesterday evening, the twins and he had been only allowed to see him for a few moments before they had been thrown out by a very resolute Lord Elrond. If he had been a little bit more observant, he would have recognised the first signs of restlessness in the young man and would have prepared himself for a visit.

Aragorn returned the look without even blinking and cocked his head slightly to the side.   
"If I had known how you would react, however, I would have reconsidered."

"I am sorry," Legolas hurried to assure the man. "I truly am, Aragorn. I was simply reacting before I was fully aware of what was going on. Did I hurt you?"

"No," the man shook his head. "No, I am fine."

"You shouldn't have sneaked up on me like that," Legolas went on to admonish the man. "I could have killed you! I did not realise where I was for a moment."

"That much was obvious," Aragorn agreed seriously. "Where did you think you were?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where did you think you were?" Aragorn pressed, refusing to let himself be cowed by the elven prince's forbidding stare. He could almost see how the invisible shutters behind Legolas' eyes slammed down, hiding all his feelings and emotions as effectively as a brick wall. "You must have thought yourself to be somewhere else if the first thing you do when you wake up is nearly slit someone's throat."

"That is my natural reaction when faced with you upon awakening."

"Very funny," Aragorn smiled brightly at the stalling elf. "Where did you think you were?"

"I do not have to answer that," Legolas all but huffed. "The last thing I checked, submitting to interrogations was not something your father's guests are required to do."

"You're not a guest," the man shook his head determinedly. "You're … you."

"Such perceptiveness."

"Sarcasm won't work, my friend," Aragorn informed his friend smilingly. "I am prepared to repeat my question indefinitely if I have to. Where did you think you were?"

The elf narrowed his eyes at the man, wondering not for the first time just how a mere human could be so stubborn and thick-headed. It had to be his elven blood, he finally decided.   
"There is something called 'privacy', Estel. You should acquaint yourself with the meaning of that word sometime."

"Where did you think you were?"

"You are serious, aren't you?"

"Where did you think you were?"

"Varda's domes above, stop it!" Legolas ran a hand through his long hair and glared at the young man. "I begin to pity your father, I really do. How he has put up with you so long will forever remain a mystery to me."

"He's an exceedingly understanding and patient elf," Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. "Not to mention very, very wise." He stopped for a moment, apparently trying to remember what he had been about to say. "Where did you think you…"

"If," Legolas interrupted his friend before he could finish the sentence, "and I cannot stress the word enough, _if _I tell you, will you stop badgering me and leave me in peace?"

"Yes," Aragorn assured the elf evenly. "_If _you tell me."

Legolas didn't say anything for a few moments and merely stared at his hands, a blank expression on his face. The seconds trickled by, and Aragorn was quickly beginning to regret having pressured his friend into telling him something he so obviously did not wish to share.

"I am sorry, _mellon nín_. I do not have the right to ask you to tell me something you do not wish to discuss. I shall leave you to your thoughts and let the matter rest."

He was about to rise to his feet when Legolas looked up and quickly shook his head.   
"No," he raised one of his hands slightly. "No, it's alright. It's just that…"

Aragorn gave him a long look when the other trailed off.   
"It has something to do with the ridge, hasn't it."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement, a statement made with such quiet conviction that the elf once again wondered just when in the past three years he had become so transparent.   
"Is that so obvious?"

Aragorn smiled slightly, thinking back to what he could remember of their time on that ridge. He had been more than a little shaky, but even so he could almost see the nearly panicky expression that Legolas hadn't been able to hide completely.   
"Aye," he nodded seriously. "It is, if you know what to look for."

The elven prince returned the smile somewhat shakily.   
"I really must try to become less predictable." He fell silent for a moment, but then he added, "I was trapped, Estel. I was trapped in the dark. I don't like that feeling."

Aragorn nodded slowly.   
"Nogrodrim."

Legolas didn't say anything, his thoughts returning to the cave system in the Misty Mountains where the twins and he had been trapped for several days. The entrance had collapsed before they had had the chance to get out – collapsed on them, mind you. It had taken Elrohir hours to dig the two of them out, and they had needed days until they had worked their way through the tunnels and had seen the sunlight again. It was surely not one of his favourite memories.

"Yes," he admitted softly. "Yes, at least partly. But there is something else. I told you about that one time Celylith and I were captured by orcs, close to the Gladden Fields?" Aragorn nodded silently. "Well, then you know that things … well, went ugly. For both of us."

The man nodded again, something which the elf didn't even seem to notice. The flickering candlelight cast distorted shadows onto his face that only served to deepen the impressing of anxiety and unease.

"Before that day I had never truly grasped the concept of how slowly days can pass. Everyone knows the feeling that certain events will never come or end, even the Firstborn, but that … that was something entirely different. I was not awake all that much, but I still know how I was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and wondering how much longer it would take them to tire of us. Before they killed us."

He smiled ironically, caught up in the memories.   
"We were on patrol that day. We split up, I don't even know why anymore. Celylith and I followed the path leading down into the direction of the Great River, and all but ran into a horde of orcs. If it hadn't been so stupid, it would have been downright funny." His insincere smile widened a little. "He's an idiot, have I ever told you that?"

"A few times, I believe," Aragorn answered cautiously, not wanting to distract his friend.

"Well, it is true. We put up a fight, naturally, and when it became obvious that we wouldn't escape we even tried to make them kill us, but in the end they overwhelmed us nonetheless. The whole time it took us to reach their lair in one of hills Celylith made such a fuss that they finally knocked him out to have some peace – and all to distract them from me."

He paused for a moment.   
"They put us into a tiny cave, no more than perhaps four paces by four paces. The ceiling was so low that you couldn't even stand up, and it was darker than anything I had ever seen before. I have been afraid many times in my life, Aragorn, but never have I been more terrified than during the two days it took the rest of our patrol to track us. I thought that I would die there, that I would have to watch while they killed my friend before they killed me. When Glónduil and the others found us, I was most relieved about that: That I would not die alone, in the dark, surrounded by my foes."

Aragorn closed his eyes for a second, for the first time realising how much he owed Glónduil, the elf who had once been Legolas' and Celylith's friend before he had betrayed him and all of Mirkwood to their enemies. Legolas had forgiven him while Celylith had not and probably never would – the silver haired elf took most offences against his prince and friend very, very personally – but Aragorn had never truly been able to make up his mind about the whole matter, something that was most likely aided by the fact that the mere memory of Glónduil served to remind him of things he was desperate to lock in the remotest corner of his mind and then throw away the key. He had certainly never had any fond feelings for him, but now he saw how much he would have lost had the elf and the rest of the patrol not found his friends.

"You never told me it was that bad," he said softly.

"Oh, aye," Legolas said dryly. "When they had brought us back to Mirkwood, everyone was certain that we would die. Mind you, I think we did at a time." He frowned thoughtfully, and dismissed the matter before Aragorn could say anything. "Be that as it may. We survived. But it took both of us a long time before we could enter a small, enclosed space of any kind. Lying on that ledge, in the dark, without being able to move was … extremely distressing. It brought back memories, very dark memories I usually try to forget."

Aragorn smiled in sympathy.   
"And that is why you woke up prepared to slit my throat."

"Yes," the elf nodded gravely. A few moments passed before he added, "Well, it also might have been the fact that I am really getting tired of you sometimes."

The young ranger had been instructed in battle tactics and the strategy of war by none other than Glorfindel and his father and therefore recognised a diversionary attack when he saw one, but he also knew how hard it must have been for his friend to relive these particular memories. Realising that Legolas had said all he would about this topic, he merely raised an eyebrow and gave the elf an ironic look.   
"The doors are always open, your Highness. You may leave us anytime you wish."

"Wonderful." Legolas nodded and stood to his feet. "If you would be so kind to get me my bags, I will take my weapons and be on my way…"

"Oh, please do," Aragorn grinned and leaned back against a bed post. "I cannot wait to see _ada's_ face when he hears that you have left, injured, without having asked him first."

"On second thought," the elf said slowly as he quickly sat back down, "I think I will stay for a while longer. A few days maybe. Or a few weeks."

"A very wise decision, my friend."

"Indeed," Legolas nodded his head regally. "I am old and very, very wise."

"Ha!" Aragorn exclaimed, his eyes twinkling merrily. "By the standards of your people, my friend, you are a child."

"So are you," the elf shot back.

"Twenty-three is a respectable age," Aragorn informed his friend haughtily.

"If you say so, my friend," Legolas smiled cordially. "If you say so." He rested the back of his head against the headboard and gave the man a long look. "Thank you."

Aragorn did not have to ask what the elf was aiming at and inclined his head minutely.   
"Always, _mellon nín_. Even if it means nearly having my throat cut."

"What commendable bravery you display."

"I know, my friend. I know."

* * *

He was slowly but surely beginning to go out of his mind. It wasn't a gradual process; at least he didn't think so. It couldn't be, since it had started almost exactly half a day ago, when they had arrived in this oh-so-very hospitable town and had been greeted with about as much cheer as the plague. 

Elvynd turned slightly and shot a quick look over his shoulder. Apart from insane this town was also making him paranoid. He would have been able to swear that someone was watching them – then again, someone _was _watching them. Quite a lot of someones, actually, and quite openly, too.

The dark haired elf suppressed an annoyed and long-suffering sigh. The inhabitants of Aberon weren't even trying to disguise the fact that they were watching their departure with something close to festive cheer. At least two dozen were more or less openly observing their preparations to depart, and Elvynd was rather sure that more were watching them in secret.

He shrugged slightly as he turned back to his horse and secured the bag with fresh rations on the animal's back. That was something, at least: They had been able to procure some food other than dried meat and fruit. A rather friendly (compared to the rest of this town, that was) merchant had sold them what they had been looking for, namely fresh bread, cheese and meat, and the man's wife had even given them a few apple tarts for free when she had seen Cuilthen, "the poor, thin young lad". Elvynd grinned. The young elf had been mortally embarrassed that the woman had treated him like a human child, but once he had tried one of the tarts, he had stopped complaining and had apparently judged it to be a worthy sacrifice. Secretly, Elvynd had to agree. The pastries were delicious.

This was more the exception than the rule, however. The people of Aberon had not been happy to see them, a sentiment that had not abated in the slightest. He and his men had not been present during the talks Lord Erestor had had with the town council this morning, but judging from the look on the other elf's face when he had left the town hall half an hour ago they had not been productive – another thing that hadn't been much of a surprise for him. The man who had greeted them yesterday evening on behalf of the council had been Hurag and none other, something that had caused the smile on his face to freeze. That had been the time when he had realised that their mission had failed before it had even truly begun. Hurag as representative of the town council – if that didn't bode ill, he certainly didn't know what did.

And he had been proven right, hadn't he? The inhabitants of this town clearly didn't want them here, which was just fine with him, of course. The sooner they could leave this place behind, the safer and generally happier he would be.

"Sir?" A soft voice behind him caused him to turn around again. To his unending relief, it was not one of the townspeople but only Cuilthen, who was flanked by Aleneth and another warrior. The other two elves were with Lord Erestor and had the orders to stay at the dark haired advisor's side as if someone had glued them there.

Feeling relieved that none of them was in any immediate danger, Elvynd raised an eyebrow.   
"Yes, young one?"

The other elf looked at him steadily, but seemed to have some trouble keeping a straight face.   
"We looked everywhere, sir, and are glad to be able to report that we found them."

Elvynd blinked, deciding that he was not the only one who was going insane here.   
"Them?"

"Yes, sir," Aleneth nodded for his young companion, but couldn't keep a grin off his face either. "They were hiding in a barn, but we managed to locate them nonetheless."

They really were insane, Elvynd thought with a stab of dread. He just hoped they hadn't done something to some of Aberon's inhabitants that would cause a major diplomatic incident.   
"What in the name of Varda Elentári are you _talking _about, Aleneth?"

"This, sir," Cuilthen chimed in, reaching into his cloak and producing a small, furry bundle. Elvynd could only stare as the bundle opened large, green eyes, began to purr and licked the young elf's hand. "It's several generations removed, but it was the best we could do."

"It's the descendant of that benevolent kitten you told us about," the third warrior stated with a large smile on his lips. "You can tell by its kind and affable disposition."

"It has five siblings and several other relatives whose exact identity we couldn't discover," Aleneth informed his increasingly wide-eyed captain. "We thought it best to leave them there in order not to upset the mother, but if you want us to, we can fetch them. Sir."

Elvynd only stared at the small cat which was right now trying to rub its head against Cuilthen's knuckles. A small part of his mind told him that his men knew him far better than he'd thought and were only trying to cheer him up, but a larger part of him was firmly convinced that they had abandoned all shreds of sanity and had gone stark raving mad.

"You searched the entire town for a kitten." The three elves nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world for elven warriors to be doing in a more or less openly hostile town. "And then you kidnapped it."

"I wouldn't use that particular word, sir," Aleneth shook his head. "We will take it back."

"I hope so," Elvynd said slowly, carefully looking from one of his men to the other. They might be mad, he decided, but they managed to look quite normal. "Now would be good."

"But, sir…" Cuilthen trailed off, looking at him pleadingly.

"No, young one," Elvynd shook his head firmly. "The last thing we need is someone running after us, screaming that we have stolen his cat. Besides, you wouldn't want to deprive a mother of her young, would you?"

"No, sir," the young elf agreed sullenly. Captain Elvynd was right, of course, as he usually was. He was in fact the person he admired most after Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel, and he trusted him implicitly. "We'll take it back, sir."

"You do that," the captain nodded. The three warriors exchanged sheepish looks and turned around, and he added softly, "But thank you."

They turned back to look at him, rather stupid grins on their faces.   
"Don't mention it, sir," Aleneth told their superior. "We'll return it to its mother now."

"Be back here as soon as you can," Elvynd nodded at his men. "I would rather spend a few weeks in Minas Morgul than stay here a second longer than I have to."

The elf nodded as well, and a second later he and his companions had disappeared into a small alleyway to his left. Elvynd shook his head slightly, wondering once again what exactly he had done to the Valar to deserve his lot in life. Before he could find a definite answer to that question, Lord Erestor and his two remaining men stepped out of the inn they had spent the night in. The three elves were followed by Hurag and another man whose face he couldn't place at once, but after a few seconds he recognised him as Toran, the "reasonable" trader about whom he had told the advisor before.

"…as I told you before," Hurag's voice could be heard, sounding as if he was talking to a thoroughly dim-witted, abject child. "There is nothing you would have to concern yourselves about. It is wholly our business, as…"

"…you told me before, Master Hurag," Erestor finished the sentence, a tired undertone in his voice. That more than anything else told Elvynd how thoroughly annoyed the other elf really was. During diplomatic talks, Lord Erestor never interrupted anyone. "Yes. I understand."

"What my colleague is trying to say, my lord," Toran interjected smoothly, "is that this is an internal problem. It is nothing about which you or your lord would have to worry."

"As _I _told you and your colleagues before, Master Human," Erestor began reasonably, "it does concern us – not to mention worry us, of course – when one of our allies is close to war. And we _are _allies – are we not?"

"Oh, I'm sure you're allies with _someone _in this valley," Hurag mumbled under his breath.

Erestor ignored the unveiled accusation and returned his attention to the tall, fair haired man next to Hurag. Toran was so tall that he could have passed for an elf, if not for his beard and the grey strands in his sun bleached hair. He was even looking like an elf at the moment, namely just like Elrond when he was desperately trying to keep patient and even-tempered even despite the foolishness and idiocy of his conversational partner.

"It is not our intention to intrude on what are clearly internal matters," Erestor told Toran as reasonable as he could. "If you tell me that there is nothing to the rumours we have heard, we will report to our lord that there is nothing to worry about."

"That would depend on what kind of rumours you have heard," Toran shrugged evenly.

"Oh, nothing truly specific," Erestor shrugged as well, a calculating glint in his eyes. "Something about clashes between your men and those of the town of Donrag. About destroyed warehouses, ambushed wagon trains and something that could almost be called a trade war. As I said," he shrugged again, ironically, "Nothing specific."

The tall man clearly had to suppress a smile.   
"These … rumours, as you call them, are nothing more than just that: Rumours."

"Aye," Hurag grumbled next to him, giving the elves in front of him a dark glance, as if he was expecting them to lunge at him any second. "There's nothing you would have to know." He glanced at Erestor. "Besides, what is it they say? What you don't know can't hurt you."

"In my experience, Master Hurag," Erestor retorted, a hint of a warning in his voice, "What you don't know usually gets you killed."

"Ah well," the grey haired man retorted with a smug smile, "That, too."

Erestor sighed inwardly and finally decided that he would no longer waste his time with these tiresome humans. If they wanted to kill each other over a handful of gold or a few pounds of salt, they were very welcome to do so. He would not get involved, Rivendell would not get involved and neither would Captain Elvynd and his men. He had promised the younger elf that they would have left this town by afternoon, and he fully intended to keep that promise.

"Your word and that of your fellow councilmen is more than enough then," Erestor nodded his head at the tall man, deciding to ignore Hurag as best as he could. The Valar knew he wasn't an easy person to rile, but Hurag was coming very, very close. "If there is nothing more you would like to discuss, my men and I will leave you now."

"About time," Hurag grumbled, quite audibly.

Toran shot the older man an admonishing look and inclined his head to the dark haired elf.   
"No, Master Elf, there is nothing more we would need to discuss. Where are you going to go now?"

Erestor gave the two men an emotionless look and quirked a dark eyebrow, faint amusement shimmering in his grey eyes.   
"That, gentlemen, would be wholly our business. Good day."

The elf turned around with a rather spectacular swirl of his cloak, and a few minutes later, after he and three of his men had been joined by the rest of their small travelling party, they were all gone, leaving behind a few interested townspeople and a small cloud of dust that settled quickly. Neither Toran nor Hurag had offered to escort their uninvited guests to the gates, and so they remained behind, too, looking after the seven elves with almost identical expressions of annoyance and distaste.

"Good riddance," Hurag finally commented darkly, staring at the empty street in front of them as if it was in any way to blame for their situation.

"Yes," Toran agreed, his tone of voice not noticeably cheerier. "But they will be back, sooner or later."

"What makes you say that?"

"You leave the town not often enough, Hurag," the tall man told his companion earnestly. "You are beginning to lose your touch when it comes to judging strangers. This Erestor won't simply give up and go away because we've told him to. Oh no," he shook his head and grimaced slightly, "He'll be back and annoy us once more, just like the perfect little elf he is."

"We'll see about that," the grey haired man said grimly. "If you are right and they really return, we will have to make our wishes a little bit clearer, won't we?"

Toran nodded darkly while the two of them were returning to the town hall.

Neither of them would have needed to waste a thought on that particular topic, however, for a few hours ago a group of more than two dozen horsemen had left the neighbouring town of Donrag, heading north.

**************

* * *

TBC...   
**

**_

* * *

_**_ada - father (daddy)   
mellon nín - my friend_

**************

* * *

•rubs hands• Oh yes, they're going to get into deep, deep trouble... •evil grin• Well, what else is new? We've been waiting for it to happen long enough now, too... Alright, I think the next chapter will be here in a week, meaning on Thursday. I would like to make up for not posting sooner by updating a few days earlier, but I don't think I'll make it on Monday and on Tuesdays I get back home at 11.30 pm. Which is a bit late. •g• I'll try to post on Wednesday, but I'm not promising anything. Reviews, however, do help. Quite a lot, actually. •g• So: Review? Please?**

* * *

******************************Additional A/N:**

**Red Tigress** - Oh yes, I know how it is. I'm still trying to get used to the latest changes they've made... LOL, I am sure most of you are indeed waiting for the "storm". •shakes head and glances at evilly grinning alter ego• Let me tell you one thing: It's not going to be pretty... •g• **   
Harry Estel** - The answer to that question is rather obvious: FF-net is evil and hates all of us. It wants to make our lives miserable. I think that explains about everything... •g• Oh, and don't worry about the night. Nothing's going to happen to our dear heroes during the night. The next day, however, is another story. •g•   
**Elvendancer** - You are right. Letting the two of them fight might not be such a good idea. Who would patch them up? •g• Elrond might be a little busy with our intrepid and stupid heroes during the next few weeks... •g• Make that months. Or years. Decades. Centuries... •evil grin• Oh, poor Elrond.   
**Andi-Black** - Nah, blackmail is not nice. But effective, not to mention lots of fun! •g• LOL, yes, I love that, too! I mean, come on! Who runs UP the stairs when a psycho with a knife/gun/chainsaw/axe/whatever is chasing you? How stupid can you be? •shakes head• I really don't get it.   
**Alilacia** - I am NOT torturing all of them. Nu-uh. It's simply not true. I have never tortured ... •thinks• ... •thinks harder• ... uhm, Thranduil! Physically, that is... •g• I have to agree with you, though: It's a miracle that Aragorn reached 25, not to mention 90 and later 200-something. It's simply amazing. The way he is acting, he should have died about two decades ago... A lot of people liked the "worm on hook" thing! I am trying to think that you liked my witty metaphor and are not hoping I'd actually DO something like that? •thinks• On second thought, do not answer that. I don't want to know. Finally, someone who likes Mint Sauce, too! •huggles• My family looked at me as if I was crazy when I insisted on eating it with roast lamb - I have no idea why. They're probably confusing it with Mint Jelly - now that's simply disgusting!   
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Well, it would be kind of stupid if they came back and said that, wouldn't it? I mean, Elrond would probably even understand, but I have somehow trouble seeing Erestor do something like that. •g• About that sentence you mentioned: Is it the missing comma? I'm sorry about that; I never really understood how punctuation works in English. It's even worse in German and I am just ... well, guessing, I think. It's correct most of the time, even though I couldn't explain to you why I did what. •g• I'm weird, don't remind me.   
**Crippled Raven** - I like that idea. •evil grin• The world would be better off, no doubt. •g• You're sick? I hope it's not too bad, even though it's hardly surprising. There is no better time to get sick than in November, after all... LOL, Elvynd DEFINITELY needs a Pity Club, believe me. The poor elf needs all the support he can possibly get. •quick look at next chapter• Oh yeah, LOTS of support. I didn't like the 3rd movie in general, but I have to admit that the whole nazgûl confrontation really took the biscuit. It was horribly, terribly, incredibly ... BAD. •shudders• What kind of wimpy line is "I am no man" in comparison with "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin ... For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him."?? What was PJ thinking? •shakes head• I always loved that bit in the book. Glad you liked the crazed monkey, though. •g• And how can you not notice something like that? I spent the last three summers in England, and 2003 was the only "real" summer! I nearly drowned because of the rain - I was near Bishop's Stortford, so not even close to the sea. And I like Essex a lot. It's very ... English. Yeah, that's it. English. •g• I hope you're better now!   
**Marbienl** - •evil grin• So you're suffering from story-withdrawal, huh? To quote Jack Sparrow: "That •very• interesting..." •g• •wide eyes• Uhm ... Interesting scenario, really. Not quite right, however. Sorry. I don't think that anyone who isn't an elf or possibly a ranger could sneak past the border guards into Imladris. And I'll keep that scene in mind, promise. If there is a way to put it in, I'll see what I can do. I'm not promising anything, though. What exactly do you mean? He has "my slipperiness"? I am not slippery - at least I think so! I think I should be offended... •g• Oh, and I can tell you how much of what Elrond is: Elrond/Elros are/were ... •takes a deep breath• 9/16 Elf, 6/16 Man and 1/16 Maia. You can calculate yourself how "half-elven" the twins and Arwen really are... •g• And from a Noldo's POV it's a lot better to be fostered by Noldor than by Sindar. Naturally. •grins smugly• Ah, I did have a reason for choosing that title. I'm evil, after all, so I won't tell you. •g• Uhm, I haven't been thinking about the dwarves. They won't be in this story, sorry. I'm really not sure about Erestor's name, though. "Er-" as prefix usually means "alone". The only other thing I could think of was "esta-" which means "to name", even though I couldn't explain what kind of form "estor" should be. Words on "-ar/-or" or generally "-r" are more Quenya, anyway. •shrugs• Long story short: I don't really know. •g•   
**TrustingFriendship** - Yeah, I think so, too. The whole guilt trip thing is probably contagious. Or genetic, or both. •g• Elrond really should put them under "room arrest"! •g• I love that expression! •g•   
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - No, no, don't worry. Aragorn's going to be just fine. I'm not sure whether Elrond did indeed overdose him a little or whether Aragorn was just being stubborn, but Teonvan's "potion" had nothing to do with it. Teonvan can't be responsible for everything, after all. •g• Aha! So I'm not the only one who has an evil alter ego! That's rather nice to hear... •g• Thanks for your well wishes, but my university really did not disappear, which is a real shame. Ah well, we can't have everything, I guess.   
**Barbara Kennedy** - Uhm, yes, I think your guess is as good as any. It's either that or he was being stubborn. I really don't think Elrond overdosed him. It's just not like him. And if Aragorn's body knows what's good for it, it will sleep for the next few months. That might keep him out of trouble. "Might" being the main word. •g•   
**CrazyLOTRfan** - Whoah! Huge review, thanks! •huggles• Ah well, the TV doesn't really matter anymore. It appears that I missed the deadline for the US/Canada by a mere three months. •g• Yes, that would be THAT Tuor. Aragorn really manages to be related to both men who married elf maidens (or, in Beren's case, a half-elf maid). Lucky him. •g• LOL, I love that flashback! Somehow I can imagine Glorfindel do something like that - which is rather disconcerting now that I think about it... •g• Glad I could amuse you. Hope you'll like the kitten, then. I almost let them keep it. •g• Yes, there is a real cliffy in the next chapter (at least I think so), but this one is only a tiny one. That's my opinion, however, and most people tend to disagree. I wonder why. •g•   
**Snow-Glory** - I think it's fair to say that they can be equally annoying. Aragorn more in the "plain-annoying" sort of way and Legolas in the "arrogant-annoying" way, I think. •g• Originally I wanted to put the whole Glorfindel-guilt-thing into the last chapter of TWIN, but then I decided against having them return to Rivendell and cut it, so to speak. So it's in here. Poor Glorfindel. •g•   
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - Well, who isn't a Glorfy fan? What's not to like about him? •huggles elf lord• Don't worry about the Erestor angst, or let's rather say general elf angst. I am perfectly aware that I really took my time this story (which is mostly because Aragorn and Legolas don't get involved right away) and am immensely grateful to all of you for being so patient. I promise you that the really interesting part is coming next chapter, with death, doom, pain, blood and even a cliffy! Yay! •g•   
**Grumpy** - I've always thought so, too. Talk about a traumatic childhood experience. •g• Aragorn was most likely really still a little drugged when he woke up, so he didn't really mean what he said. LOL, I like that comparison! They really are a tiny bit like sheep ... or what about lemmings? Yes, that's it. Lemmings. •g•   
**Skates Hawkes** - Ha! Another one! •g• I am glad to see that you have de-lurked. I'm sure you've noticed that I love reviews. •grimaces• I guess it would have been rather hard to miss. •blushes• Thank you for all your compliments. I have assumed the colour of an overripe tomato, but am grinning broadly. •g• LOL, I know what you mean! I hate it when elves (or any other ME beings) talk like that! It's just so wrong on so many levels! •g• You can also rest assured that I will never, EVER, write a Mary Sue. They are a plague, a cancer (insert Matrix dialogue here), and I will never intentionally create one. •shudders• I worry about Acalith, though. She's most definitely evil, but she's beautiful. Is that a MS characteristic? •frowns• I hope not. I am so sorry for not posting on Monday, I really am! I feel horrible! You write such a nice review, and what do I do? Let you wait for the next bit for ages... I hope you're not too cross! •huggles•   
**Elitenschwein** - Das ist also eine 'kuerzere Review', ja? Ist ja interessant - ist doch schon fast Romanlaenge! •g• Was treibst du denn in Berlin? Und es gibt keine Hinweise in meinen anderen Stories. Nee. Musst du irgendwas falsch verstanden haben... •g• Tja, was kann ich sagen? Ich liebe den Silmarillion! Das Buch ist einfach so ... intensiv! Es gibt so viele Stellen und auch Dialoge, die sich einfach ganz tief bei mir eingegraben haben, und die wollen eben auch mit in die Geschichten. Hartnaeckige kleine Dinger. •g• LOL, ja, Legolas ist der "dumme blonde Waldelb" und Aragorn der "dreckige Waldschrat". Passt alles. •g• Das mit der Zusammenstellung weiss ich nicht so genau. Ich wuerd's ja gern mal aendern der Abwechslung halber, aber irgendwie will keiner da bleiben. Mal gucken. •g•   
**Aratfeniel** - Oh yes, life IS hectic at the moment. Why do you find the name Donrag hilarious, though? It's just a name that fits. Did I miss something? •worried• I have to admit that I have absolutely no idea where monkey might live in ME. Harad would be my guess too, however. Or maybe Khand. Who knows. •g•   
** Tineryn** - LOL, I feel honoured that you invented that word. Thanks a lot. •g• Don't worry about that, I know that life can be very busy - and most of the time it is, too. I hope you'll enjoy the Erestor-Glorfindel bits, even if they're not slash. That is, I hope it's not. •g• "Adorable" is as nice a word as any, I guess, even though I have the rather distinct feeling that Glorfindel wouldn't agree. He's strange like that. •gasp• Internet access only on weekends? OMG, that's ... cruel and unusual punishment! It's inhumane! How have you survived?? I'm very impressed by your resilience. Really, I am. •pats your back• Poor you.   
** LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - •g• I didn't know that there was a "Teovan" in one of C&S' stories! That's a rather interesting coincidence... Slightly scary, too. •g• I wasn't very happy about PJ leaving Glorfindel out of the film, too. It was very inconsiderate of him, not to mention evil. LOL, yes, I think so too. Glorfindel is probably making these rules up as he goes along. •g• And this was a long review! Really! Thanks a lot! •huggles•   
**Ventinari **- Yeah, Glorfindel and Elrond really go a little far with the whole "Take responsibility for your actions" thing. They take responsibility for their actions and everyone else's! •g• You are imagining that particular smell, however, really. Nothing will happen to any of them. •evil grin• Why are you looking at me like that? Don't you trust me? •g• I guess not. LOL, so this will be a "character building experience" for him? That's an interesting way to see it... •g•   
**KLMeri** - Well, to be honest I don't rightly know. The only thing is that the twins are always together. It would be interesting to see how they acted when they are not, that's all. Maybe I'll chain him to his bed or something like that? •narrows eyes in thought• Maybe he'll break his hip for real. •shrugs• Don't pay me any attention. I've been mulling over that for quite some time now. You might be right, however. He'd probably annoy me the entire time. •g• Would be just like him.   
**Radbooks** - Oh, it is totally okay to scream at Erestor. Go ahead. •g• I am screaming at him myself. He just doesn't listen to anything I say, stubborn elf that he is. •g• All of you worry for the wrong reasons, however. Nothing will happen to them in Aberon. Really, I promise. •evil grin• So you want a How Aragorn and Legolas Met Story as the next short story, huh? Well, I'll see what I can do! I guess there are quite a few people who want me to write something like that, so why not? I'm sure they'll be thrilled to be in yet another story together! •Aragorn and Legolas run away screaming• Ah, they just don't know how to express their joy.   
**Viggomaniac** - I completely understand. RL can be really annoying sometimes, and such situations are always very, very stressful. •shudders slightly• Oh yes, they are. RL is, unfortunately, a lot more important than weird little stories. That's what my professors say, anyway. •g•   
**Smile Neumann** - Nah, Glorfindel isn't a crazed monkey. I would never say that myself. He is a handsome, wise crazed monkey. That's a very important difference. But I think Aragorn has manners. He just ... hides them well? •g• Or something like that.   
**Tychen** - •nods• I find that strange to comprehend, too. I mean, Glorfindel is probably as old as Galadriel, or at least almost as old. That's just ... well, old. Very, very old. •g• LOL, you're right, of course. Glorfindel will need to be guilt-free so he can heap loads and loads of guilty feelings onto his shoulders when he hears about this newest catastrophe. Good thinking. •g• **   
Chip** - Well, that's an interesting question. I think Erestor is feeling quite well at the moment, especially if one considers how he'll feel in a few hours. •thinks and nods• Oh yeah. He's positively happy right now. •g•

**Sorry for keeping the responses a little shorter at the end. I'm running out of time. •g• Thank you for all your lovely reviews!**


	10. The Die Is Cast

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**  
A/N:**

**•shakes head• Isn't anybody watching the Simpsons anymore? You know, the most divine TV show in the history of TV? Except maybe Monty Python's Flying Circus, but that's debatable. •shrugs• Ah well. At least some people caught it. Yes, it was indeed the whole Acalith-puts-her-hands-together-and-says-"Excellent!"-thing. So, cookies** **for all of you!**

**I'll make this** **quick since it's my mother's birthday today and spending a prolonged amount of time in front of my computer could result in my painful and untimely death, at least today. So all I'm going to say is: What are the odds of me (and my alter ego, let's not forget about her •evil grin•) not hurting the patrol? Hmm? Come on, you KNOW I'm evil! I need to have a little fun as well! Besides: Just take a look at Elvynd's guards' names. Oh, anyone who can tell me what they mean gets a cloned (dead) OC! •Nólad, Galalith & Co. bury their heads in their hands and ****sigh•** **Yay!**

**  
Anyway, here is the next chapter, in which everything gets a lot more interesting. There's a little light-hearted scene with Aragorn, Legolas and the twins (Elrohir is, however, rather ... displeased for most of it ) and lots of pain, blood, doom, gloom, angst and things like that. Oh, and death. Let's not forget death. •evil grin•**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

* * *

Chapter 10

Aberon faded into the distance behind them, and Elvynd allowed himself to breathe a soft sigh of relief. He had been aware of how ill at ease he had felt in that town, but not until now had he realised the full extent of it.

It wasn't that the town itself – or even its inhabitants – was overly malicious, not to mention downright evil. He had faced quite a lot of truly evil beings, most of them creatures of Sauron and Morgoth, and he knew the face of real evil when he saw it. The people of Aberon were not evil, but they were suspicious, distrustful, prejudiced, disagreeable and, frankly, incredibly annoying.

They wanted to reap the rewards of their trade with Rivendell, but they did not want to deal with Rivendell's population. It seemed that they didn't even want to be reminded that Rivendell's population was in fact not human but rather elven. Elvynd shook his head inwardly. Sometimes he truly found himself overwhelmed by the very, very vivid urge to travel to the Grey Havens and get on the first ship he could find.

The dark haired captain sighed softly and returned his attention to his surroundings. It didn't help at all to ponder why he didn't like the population of the town they had just left – and besides, it would take him a few hours to enumerate all his reasons. His feeling that something was seriously wrong had not exactly worsened, but it had most certainly not abated, either. He liked their entire situation not a bit better than yesterday or the day before. Or the day before, or the day before it.

He turned slightly and gave the broad, shimmering river to his left a quick look. They had crossed the stream about two hours ago, and, if anything, its current had become even swifter. The banks, too, looked anything but inviting, and Elvynd began to realise that this had to be at least one reason why Aberon and Donrag were having some … problems. He had known that there was no other place where one could ford the river, but he had forgotten just how broad and treacherous the Mitheithel really was.

Elvynd paused for a moment to imagine what the stream would look like if it were truly stirred up or if its water level rose. He shuddered slightly. He truly did not wish to imagine what would happen if Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, should stir up the Hoarwell in sudden wrath or if a sudden swell of ice water from the Misty Mountains should reach it. The latter possibility wasn't something about which he worried overly much, though. The weather was still cold and chilly for this time of year, and he would be very much surprised if the ice and snow in the heights of the Hithaeglir would suddenly begin to melt.

The dark haired captain shook his head slightly and turned back, realising that Cuilthen and another member of their troupe had manoeuvred their horses next to his and were staring at the Mitheithel as well. Elvynd quickly made sure that his remaining men were acting as vanguard, rearguard and personal bodyguard to Lord Erestor before he turned back to the other two elves, a small smile on his lips that did not reach his eyes.

"Not like the Bruinen, is it?"

"No, sir," Cuilthen shook his head quickly, his eyes still fixed on the river. "Not like the Bruinen at all."

The other elf merely raised his eyebrows, and Elvynd knew without having to be told what he was thinking. The Bruinen, even though peaceful and safe enough most of the time, could rise up in sudden fury as well. It was almost unheard-of and had occurred the last time many, many years ago, but every time it had happened, it had coincided with some sort of danger that had loomed over their home. Rumour had it that, somehow, Lord Elrond possessed the ability to control the river and bend it to his will, even though the question of how he did that was anyone's guess.

"We'll be back home soon, lad," Elvynd finally said. "In the company of more reasonable beings." He frowned suddenly. "Well, if you disregard Captain Isál."

The other two elves grinned openly. It was not exactly a secret that Captain Elvynd's friend was madly in love with a certain red haired healer, something which one half of Rivendell considered the most remarkable act of bravery they had seen for a long time. The other half thought it to be nothing but rare stupidity.

Elvynd gave them a mock glare and was just about to open his mouth to tell them that it was unbecoming to mock one's superior officers when Cuilthen quickly spoke up, apparently trying not to displease him.

"Oh, it's not that, sir," the young elf assured his captain, shaking his head. "I don't mind being here at all."

"You don't?" Elvynd raised an eyebrow.

"No, of course not, sir," Cuilthen shook his head again. "Do you?"

Elvynd was very aware of the suddenly questioning look the other elf shot him and did not answer immediately. He debated for a moment if he should keep quiet in order not to worry his men more than most of them already were, but quickly decided against it. It would not only be unfair and irresponsible, it would also be dangerous.

"Yes, Cuilthen," he eventually said slowly. "I do mind."

"But why, sir?" the younger elf asked, apparently clueless. "If it is because of the cat…"

"No, young one," Elvynd shook his head with a smile. "It's not that. You returned it to its mother, didn't you?"

"We did," Aleneth's voice affirmed, causing Elvynd to quickly turn to his left. Lord Erestor and Aleneth had obviously heard their conversation and had spurred on their horses to catch up with them. "She nearly scratched our eyes out."

"Aleneth fought her off, though," Cuilthen's companion chimed in with a smug look into the other elf's direction. "Such a fight has not been witnessed for many an age, sir, not since the War of Wrath!"

Aleneth mumbled something that did not sound at all complimentary but otherwise ignored his cheekily grinning companion.  
"You still think that there is something wrong, sir?"

Elvynd exchanged a quick, almost undetectable look with Erestor before he turned very serious grey eyes on the elf riding at his left side.  
"Tell me you don't, Aleneth. But look me in the eye when you do it."

The other elf looked at him for a few moments before he lowered his dark head.  
"I fear I cannot, sir."

"I thought so," Elvynd said grimly and looked at each of his men. "Don't let your guard down. I have to admit that I was wrong about Aberon, though. Nothing has happened."

"Yet," Aleneth inserted darkly.

"Indeed," Erestor spoke up for the first time. He hadn't said much since they had left the town, and Elvynd thought that he was probably angry with himself because the talks hadn't been more fruitful or productive. "I know that you are not comfortable with this mission. _I _am not comfortable with this mission, and I will relax the exact moment we have turned our backs to this valley once and for all."

"So the humans didn't tell you anything, sir?" Cuilthen asked curiously. With his large eyes and his eager demeanour he reminded Elvynd of a puppy that was trying to please its master.

Erestor fought down a small stab of annoyance and had to force himself to remain calm. He knew that the young warrior hadn't meant anything by his question, least of all to imply that he was in any way to blame for their failure, but the question still did not sit well with him. He was very aware of the fact that their journey had, up to this point, been about as effective as the Noldor's centuries-long attempts to besiege Angband. Erestor shook his head inwardly. He really had to stop drawing such depressing comparisons.

"No, young one," Erestor told Cuilthen calmly. "They didn't tell me anything, except that everything that went on in these parts was, and I quote, 'wholly their business'."

"That's helpful," the elf riding next to Elvynd mumbled ironically.

"Indeed," Erestor agreed glumly.

"So they are hiding something?" Cuilthen asked eagerly.

Elvynd hid a smile and glared at Aleneth and his friend, all but daring them to laugh at the young elf's naiveté. He didn't know if he had been so innocent and clueless when he had been Cuilthen's age – most decidedly not, he decided almost instantly – but he wouldn't allow him to be mocked for it either. It was refreshing, if nothing else.

"What do you think, Cuilthen?" he asked gently. "Are they?"

The young, dark haired elf frowned, deep in thought and oblivious to the amused grins on his companions' faces.  
"Yes," he finally said seriously, looking as if he had just reached a conclusion of paramount importance. "I think they are. But not really something that would harm us, or Rivendell, but rather something that … well, is between them and their neighbours."

"Well done, boy," Aleneth grinned at the younger elf, ignoring his captain's warning look. "We'll make a true warrior out of you yet! Or maybe even a diplomat!"

"Oh, no," Cuilthen shook his head seriously. "I wouldn't want to be a diplomat."

Only a second later he seemed to realise in whose company he had just spoken these words, and Elvynd and his two men watched with quite a bit of fascination how the young elf's face went first white, then grey and then red, all in less than three seconds. Cuilthen simply stared wide-eyed at Erestor who was returning the look evenly, obviously doing his best to hide the small smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth. After several moments of watching the mortally embarrassed elf try to speak, Erestor merely raised a dark eyebrow and turned his horse slightly, falling back to join the rearguard of their party.

Cuilthen looked after him with such appalled eyes that Elvynd actually had to bite his lip in order not to start laughing.  
"I really shouldn't have said that, should I?" the young elf asked forlornly.

Elvynd didn't say anything for a moment, working very hard to keep a grin off his face. He waited until the young elf had lowered his head, either in shame or suicidal despair, and then quickly motioned the other two warriors to fall back a little. He really didn't want them to start roaring with laughter in front of Cuilthen.

"Well, it was not exactly the subtlest thing to say."

The younger elf stared at him with wide eyes, looking remarkably like a fawn corned by something large, hairy and big-teethed.  
"I did not mean it like it sounded, sir. I really didn't."

"I know that," Elvynd nodded, trying to put the other elf at ease. "And Lord Erestor knows it, too. That's just his idea of a joke. He spends too much time with Lord Glorfindel, you know."

Cuilthen looked at him, his eyes growing even wider.  
"Are you sure, sir?" he asked, a little uncertainty and something like admiration in his voice. If Captain Elvynd was sure, then he might get out of this without losing a few limbs.

"Yes, Cuilthen," the dark haired captain nodded again. "I am very, very sure."

"It's just that I am not cut out to be a diplomat," the younger elf tried to explain, eager to justify himself in front of his captain. "I am not very eloquent."

"Not everyone is, not even of our kind," Elvynd assured the young elf. "You don't have to worry about anything, young one. Lord Erestor knows you did not mean anything by it. You already are a fine warrior. One day in the future, you will be one of the best I've ever trained, and that's a promise."

For a moment, the other elf was torn between blushing furiously and gaping at him with an open mouth. In the end Cuilthen settled for a compromise that made him look like a fish with a bad sunburn.  
"Really?"

"Really," Elvynd smiled slightly. He gave the young elf a nod, gesturing with a hand into the direction of the elf that was riding at the head of their small group. "Ride ahead and tell Narucham to slow down. I don't like the look of that ridge over there; we'll stick closer together when we pass it."

The young elf mumbled an affirmative and spurred his horse on, still looking like a particularly red radish. Elvynd stifled another grin and looked at the ridge in question, narrowing his eyes at it as if it was responsible for being where it was. And it was, he went on darkly, at a horribly disadvantageous spot – at least when you were someone who was trying to travel to Donrag without being ambushed. When you were the one doing the ambushing, however, it was so perfectly placed that it almost brought tears to your eyes.

The dark haired captain slowed the gait of his horse, his eyes still fixed on this new obstacle. They were still following the path that ran parallel to the river Mitheithel, following its course like a thin, dark line. Sometimes it curved left or right in order to circumvent thickets or other natural obstacles, but in general it ran straight alongside the river.

The ridge in question, however, rose to their right, about five hundred yards away. It was part of the hills that almost touched the river at this point, and was covered with thick shrubbery, bushes and mostly small trees. He had almost forgotten about the hills, just as he had forgotten that Donrag itself was located on such an elevation, something that was to be contributed to the fact that, while he may have quite often visited Aberon, he had only been in its neighbouring town once or twice. The last time he had been here, more than two dozen years ago, he hadn't paid overly much attention to this particular spot, but right now it screamed "Potential trap!" at him so loudly that he was surprised that no one else could hear the words.

He didn't even realise that he had stopped his horse, and was therefore rather surprised when Lord Erestor addressed him, having caught up with him with the remaining three warriors.  
"Is something the matter, Captain?"

Elvynd didn't answer immediately, the terrain in front of them riveting his attention.  
"Yes," he finally said slowly. "Just like in the books." He turned to Aleneth. "Your saddlebags are coming loose, Aleneth. Dismount and refasten them."

The dark haired warrior blinked at his captain, but moved to obey.  
"Sir?"

"Do it," Elvynd commanded curtly. "We need a reason to stop."

"Captain?" Erestor asked, more confused than Elvynd had seen him in a long time. "What books?"

"Books like '_Skirmishes and Great Battles of the First Age_', my lord," Elvynd explained with a small smile, but without tearing his eyes away from the sight in front of him. "I got it as a _Yestarë _present when I was an elfling, and had all but learned it by heart when I reached majority." He finally looked up, straight into Erestor's narrowed eyes. "Surely you remember the _Dagor-nuin-Giliath_, my lord?"

"Who of our people does not? It was a great victory, yet it was bought with a heavy price."

"So it was," Elvynd nodded. "I was fascinated by it as a child. Especially by the part where Lord Celegorm drove the host of Morgoth into the Fen of Serech."

Erestor was a scholar and he needed only half a second to realise what the younger elf was aiming at.  
"A trap?"

"A trap," the dark haired captain agreed emotionlessly. "The orcs were caught between the Mountains of Shadow and the waters of the Sirion. And so are we, figuratively speaking."

Erestor narrowed his eyes even more, his gaze wandering from Cuilthen and Narucham who had also stopped over to the ridge to their right. It was almost impossible to pierce the thick undergrowth, even for elven eyes, and yet his very heart told him that Captain Elvynd was right. The feelings of dread and suspicion he had been carrying around with him like a heavy cloak spiked and increased, causing him to feel very vulnerable and open to attack.

"You think there is someone waiting there?" In the moment he spoke the words, he realised how foolish the question was.

"It's what I would do," Elvynd nodded coolly. "I would wait until we had reached the trees to the left," he made a vague movement over to a group of tall, forbidding trees that was standing between the river and the path, "and then I would attack. If we got away at all, we would hindered by the trees, and if we somehow managed to circumvent them, we'd still be caught between the river, the trees and the ridge. It's perfect."

"I agree, sir," Aleneth commented next to him, still busy with his saddlebags. "It's the place I would choose for an ambush."

"How reassuring it is to hear that we're both thinking along the same villainous lines, Aleneth," Elvynd smiled tensely.

Erestor turned back to them, a mildly questioning look on his face. He knew what he wanted to do, namely to go on and confront whatever was waiting for them, but he had promised Glorfindel to listen to his captain, so that was what he would do.  
"What do you propose, Captain?"

"Going back is not an option, sir," Elvynd answered with hesitation. "Whoever is waiting for us had enough time to prepare this very carefully. There is the very real chance that there is already a group waiting behind us in case we escape."

Erestor nodded slowly.  
"So you want us to go on." It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't see any alternative, my lord," Elvynd said grimly. "We are trapped. If we can keep up the pretence that we're unaware of their intentions, whoever 'they' may be, we may be able to break through. If they have horses in the vicinity, which I don't doubt, they will need some time to get to them. By the time they have mounted their horses, we will be long gone."

Erestor nodded again, a determined expression spreading over his face.  
"If we keep to the left, close to the trees, it might be feasible." He waited for a moment, his eyes returning to the ridge, and finally turned back to Elvynd. "We'll do it."

Elvynd took a deep breath and inclined his head minutely. Next to him, Aleneth was slowly remounting his horse after having untied and then retied most of his bags.  
"Alright," he said with a determined nod of his head. "You heard?" he asked with a look into Cuilthen's and Narucham's direction, who had stopped their horses some distance away and had not tried to rejoin them once they had begun their conversation.

The two elves nodded minutely.  
"Yes, sir," Narucham said quietly, as if he was talking to his young companion. He was an old, experienced warrior, and if he had any reservations or doubts about their plan, he did not show them. "Are we to keep this distance?"

"Try to fall back as far as you can without attracting too much attention," Elvynd retorted as they were beginning to urge their horses onward once more. "Once it all starts, ride as fast as you can and don't wait for us."

Cuilthen and his companion nodded minutely, and the next minutes trickled by in tense silence. While they were drawing closer to the point where the trees began to their left, Elvynd inconspicuously moved his horse to Erestor's side.

"If something should go wrong, my lord, ride on," he told the dark haired advisor seriously without turning to look at him. "We'll do our best to clear the way. Ride fast and do not stop until you are sure you are out of danger."

"Do you take me for a coward?" Erestor retorted just as softly. "I will not leave you and your men behind and save myself."

"Whoever is waiting here does not want to kill us – at least not all of us, my lord," Elvynd said quietly, a strange calmness stealing over him just like every time when he went into battle. "There were better spots for that. They want to trap us. They want to trap _you_."

Erestor shook his head slightly and said something, but Elvynd wasn't paying attention. They were close now, very close, so close in fact that he could see the ridge more clearly. There were dark shapes there, yes, moving and trying to remain covered and unseen, but they were too few, too scattered. Even if he was not seeing all of them – something that was entirely possible, considering the terrain – there were not enough people to attack and/or capture them. No one was foolish enough to carefully plot an ambush of seven armed elves and then choose only ten or twelve men to carry out that plan.

A warning cry was already on his lips before his mind had fully comprehended what the surprisingly small number of visible attackers meant, and in the moment he heard himself shout a warning to his men he realised that it was already too late. The whistling, swishing noise of arrows being released from their bowstrings could be heard, sounding to him as loud and ominous as the flapping wings of a large, terrible creature, a creature of death that had come for him and his men.

In front of him the horses of his vanguard reared up, hooves flailing frantically and manes flying wildly about their heads that thrashed in sudden agony as the projectiles found their marks. As if in slow motion Elvynd saw the two animals stumble and fall, and behind them he saw movement in the trees to the left of the path. Men poured out of the group of trees, commanded by a man with brown hair and a long, gleaming sword in his hand, and only a few seconds later the shapes he had seen on the ridge began to move as well, clambering down the sides of the steep hill to join their comrades on the road.

The horrible cries of the mortally wounded horses mingled with the cry of pain one of the two elven warriors uttered when he was crushed to the ground by his dying mount, the screams cutting through his heart and burrowing into his very soul. More piercing than the agonised cries was the knowledge of his complete and utter failure, however, and he realised that he had fallen for the oldest trick of them all.

He had been watching what the right hand had been doing and had forgotten all about the left one. He had been outwitted, and now he had led his men right into a carefully laid trap.

* * *

"Now?"

"Not yet."

For a few moments it was silent. Only for a few moments, though.

"Now?"

"Not yet."

A sigh could be heard. Fingers tapped impatiently on the wooden doorpost and clothing rustled as someone shifted restlessly on the spot.

"Now?"

Legolas slowly turned around, both in order to gather the last shreds of patience he had still left and because he didn't want to aggravate the pain in his bruised chest.  
"No, Aragorn. Not. Yet."

The dark haired ranger sighed overdramatically and shuffled a bit closer to his friend, trying to peer over his shoulder, which was quite an impossible task, considering that Legolas was as tall as he was.  
"There simply _can't _be that many healers out there!"

The elf raised an eyebrow in annoyance.  
"Are you questioning my word, _adan_?"

"Not right now, no," Aragorn shook his head. "Still, let me have a look."

"No," Legolas shook his head firmly, grateful that the headache that had plagued him for most of the past two days wasn't making a reappearance. "You breathe about as softly as an expiring oliphaunt caught in its death throes."

"You have no idea what an expiring oliphaunt caught in its death throes would sound like."

"Yes, I do," Legolas smiled broadly and returned his attention to the door he was still holding open a few inches. "I've seen many things your mortal mind couldn't possibly understand."

"I can imagine" Aragorn mumbled sarcastically, still trying to push Legolas aside. Considering that he could use only his left hand, he wasn't overly successful. "I will, for example, never understand just why the Wood-elves jump at every opportunity to indulge in what you call 'merrymaking'."

The wood-elf turned and raised an eyebrow.  
"Since when do you need a reason for merrymaking?"

"Typical," Aragorn shook his head. "How any of you Silvan Elves managed to survive the First Age is beyond me."

"Funny," Legolas smirked in a way that would have made most people extremely uncomfortable. "My father always says the same about Men."

"He would," the man mumbled softly. "Could you get a move on, please?"

"That's not up to me, ranger," Legolas informed him haughtily. He sighed softly when he saw Aragorn's impatient look and finally reached out, grasped his left sleeve and pulled him forward so he could peer through the gap. "See?"

Aragorn shook his friend's hand off but obediently took a look. The corridor outside his room was almost empty – almost. There were two elves standing at the far end of the passageway, apparently deep in conversation. It would have seemed as if they were there just by chance, but he knew better. They were healers, and they were waiting for him to set a foot out of his room.  
"Why don't we use the…"

Legolas had grabbed his arm again before he could even finish the sentence, obviously to make sure that the man didn't do anything stupid.  
"No, Aragorn. No."

"But…"

"No. Absolutely not. I'd rather walk up to a dragon and have a philosophical discussion with it than watch you climb down something. Again."

"You can't have a philosophical discussion with a dragon without it trying to eat you."

"My point exactly."

"You know," Aragorn commented softly, turning back to the slightly open door, "I really think you Wood-elves are the weirdest of all the clans. Even of your own clan."

"You're part Sinda, too, and therefore part Teler, don't forget that," Legolas grinned. "So is your family and … look!"

Aragorn returned his attention to the gap between door and doorpost, and immediately saw what the elf was talking about. The two healers cast a last look into the direction of his room before they turned around and began to walk down the corridor. The man began to grin slightly. It was already past lunchtime; he had known that they would leave to get something to eat sooner or later. Even healers needed some food once in a while.

He waited until he was sure that the two of them were gone before he turned back to his elven friend, who was looking at him expectantly.  
"Quickly now!"

Legolas needn't be told twice. Mere seconds later the two of them had left the room and were slowly and stealthily making their way down the corridor. The good thing, the wood-elf though, was that Elladan's room wasn't far away. If they were lucky, they would get there without anyone noticing. If they weren't, Lord Elrond would kill them.

It was, however, a risk well worth taking, since Aragorn was driving him insane. Since the man had visited him last night, which had resulted in him almost cutting his throat, he had complained about his "plight" almost non-stop. Legolas could only partly understand why it was a mortal offence that he had been told to stay in his room and not visit Elladan since the elf needed rest, too – what exactly had he been expecting? – but he was more than willing to help him reach his foster brother's room.

He knew that it was a childish reaction, but everything that made Gaerîn unhappy (or would make her unhappy if she knew about it) was worth his while – he still hadn't forgiven her for being so frighteningly like Hithrawyn, his father's master healer back in Mirkwood. If it also made Aragorn happy and stopped him from complaining all the time, it was an added bonus.

After only a few minutes the two of them had sneaked down the corridor, avoided a group of about half a dozen elf maids that were apparently heading for the gardens to do whatever elf maids did in gardens and finally arrived in front of Elladan's door. Legolas shot a quick look over his shoulder and, after sending a fervent prayer to the One that Lord Elrond was not with his sons, opened the door without waiting to be invited.

As soon as he had more or less dragged Aragorn into the room and had closed the door behind him, he released a soft, relieved sigh. Elladan's spacious suite was empty except for two elves, and neither of them was Lord Elrond. They might not have been the Lord of Imladris, but they were still rather busy reproducing his _look _and spearing each other with it.

"Finally! A person who has retained some measure of sense and reason!" the elf standing at the other's bedside exclaimed. "And no, I am not speaking about you, Estel," Elrohir added after a moment. "I distinctly remember _ada _telling you not to leave your room and rest."

"Strange. I do not," Aragorn said with a smug smile while he walked over to his two brothers. "Is a healer lurking here somewhere? In a closet maybe, or behind a curtain?"

"I don't think so," Elladan shook his head and stopped glaring at his twin for a moment to give his human brother a quick look. "Gelydhiel was here a few hours ago trying to drug me into the next age, but other than that I haven't seen one of their breed for a while."

"Except Gaerîn," Elrohir interjected testily. The usually so even-tempered twin was apparently close to losing the last bit of his patience. "And the half-dozen junior healers that she sent. And that elf I have seen before but whose name I can't really remember at the moment. He had dark hair and that strange regal bearing. I think his name is 'Elrond Half-elven', but I'm not completely sure."

Legolas unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh while he located a windowsill he could use as a perch. It wasn't quite as good as a tree or even an armchair, but at least you didn't have to drag it somewhere before you could sit down.  
"I believe I have met him as well, my friends. The last time I saw him he looked a little bit … harassed and rather annoyed, however. Do you have any idea why?"

"Not even the slightest," Elladan shook his head, innocence radiating off him in waves.

Legolas was sure he could hear the sound with which Elrohir's eyes caught fire. The younger twin's grey orbs assumed the colour of dark, turbulent storm clouds, and he pressed his lips together so that they were nothing but a thin, white line. Even Elladan seemed to be impressed by his brother's obvious fury, for he cautiously moved backwards in his bed, his fingers grasping his blanket as if it would shield him from his twin's wrath.

"Do we have an idea?!" Elrohir all but shouted. Aragorn made frantic gestures to appease his brother and tell him to be quieter, but the dark haired elf didn't even seem to see him. "Do we have an _idea_? Of course we have an idea! It's because my dear, reasonable, sensible brother is convinced that he is indestructible or immortal!"

"He _is _immortal," Legolas commented wryly and rather inappropriately.

Elrohir's eyes narrowed to thin, gleaming slits, something that, in combination with the open, thunderous fury on his face, was not a pretty sight.  
"Elves die, Legolas. If by fire or by steel or by grief, we die just as easily as the other races."

Legolas didn't say anything, not that he would have needed to, and Aragorn felt how a cold shiver raced down his back. He had always taken strange comfort in the knowledge that, no matter what, his family would survive and live on even though he would not. He had never liked to be reminded that the Firstborn could be killed, too, just like the younger races. _Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief_.

Aragorn shook himself, trying to abandon that extraordinarily depressing train of thought. The Doom of the Noldor had been renounced ages ago; the curse had been lifted. The dark words, spoken many an age ago, held no sway over the present. And besides, the man told himself firmly, he seriously doubted that _any _Vala, least of all Mandos, would want to make the twins' acquaintance a second before they absolutely had to.

"You know what I meant." Legolas' words ripped him out of his thoughts.

"He does have a point, brother dear," Elladan commented nevertheless.

"He has nothing of that sort, and if you value your life, you will be quiet!" Elrohir hissed at his brother. Legolas couldn't remember seeing the normally rather gentle and peaceful elf so agitated before, at least not for quite a long time. Judging by the wide-eyed expressions on Aragorn's and Elladan's faces, neither could Elrohir's two brothers. "I have enough of you now! The last time I had a look at our family tree there weren't any mules among our ancestors! Just why do you insist on behaving like one??"

Elladan exchanged a quick look with his increasingly wide-eyed foster brother.  
"I don't really know what you're talking abou…"

None of them had thought that Elrohir could actually get any more furious, but they were swiftly proven wrong.

"Don't try that on me, brother!" he said with something that sounded suspiciously like a growl. "You know exactly what I am talking about! When exactly are you planning to tell them how much your hip is really hurting you? This _yén _or the next? Or are you maybe waiting until it is our time to sail to the Undying Lands, and are planning to shout it back at them when the ship is leaving?"

"Well," the older twin began in an attempt to appease his brother, "Actually, I was…"

"…not thinking! As always! Have you ever stopped to think about how much you would worry me, or Estel, or father? Have you? What is so horrible about admitting – for once in your life, Elladan! – that you need help?! That you are hurting, as everyone would when half a mountain had just fallen on top of him? Well? Have you??"

"Well," Elladan said again. "I…"

"No, of course you haven't!" Elrohir went on without even realising that his brother had been speaking. "You never do! As long as you get to maintain your 'Lord-Elladan-the-Invincible' façade you simply don't care about anything, do you? Has it ever crossed your mind that I can _feel _that you are not alright? I _know _that your whole left leg feels as if a troll is bashing it with its hammer! Just go ahead and admit what all of Imladris knows, for Eru's sake!"

"Elrohir!" Aragorn interrupted his elven brother before he could continue. "If you allowed Elladan to finish a sentence, I believe that he would answer you."

Elrohir blinked slowly, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He didn't say anything but merely glared at his two brothers, and so Elladan quickly seized the chance to speak.  
"You are right. My hip does hurt. I did not stop to think about what you or Estel or _ada _would think. I am sorry."

"See?" Elrohir went on, apparently not really having heard what his brother had just said. "You are simply the most irritating, annoying, vexing…" He trailed off when his twin's words seemed to register in his brain. "What did you say?"

Elladan smiled, apparently greatly pleased about having managed to surprise his brother.  
"That I am sorry. I really am. I behaved irresponsibly and inconsiderately. I will even swallow that horrible pain medicine I know you are carrying around in that small grey bag you are trying to hide behind the scrolls on that table over there."

Elrohir narrowed his eyes, searching his brother's face for signs that he was trying to hide something.  
"Can I get that in writing? With Legolas and Estel signing as witnesses?"

"If you insist," Elladan sighed and carefully shifted to sit up a little straighter. He looked up and glanced at his twin who was obviously trying to decide if he was an apparition or illusion or still sane. "What?"

"Nothing," Elrohir shook his head, still looking at his twin and at the same time glaring at Aragorn and Legolas who were both grinning broadly. He moved over to the small table in front of the fireplace and took up the bag, beginning to sift through it. "Are you sure it's only your hip and not your head?"

"Oh, yes," Aragorn nodded for his older brother, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "The injury to his head occurred some years ago. I think it was shortly after his birth."

"Ah yes," Elrohir nodded while he looked through the small bag he had brought with him. "I think I remember that one. We couldn't have been much older than ten years. He had somehow managed to escape _nana _and our nursemaids, had sneaked into Erestor's study and poured the contents of three inkwells over his papers. Erestor shrieked so loudly when he saw what he had done that my dear twin fell off the desk and hit his head. Very unfortunate incident, really."

"You could say that," Elladan grumbled softly, doing his best to ignore the incredulous looks on Aragorn's and Legolas' face. This particular story was apparently one that not even his human brother had heard before. "And after that he ignored me for years."

"You were lucky then!" Aragorn exclaimed with wide eyes, stopping himself just in time from giving his older brother a slap. He didn't think that he would appreciate it overly much if he hit his injured leg. "Erestor usually kills anyone who interferes with his paperwork!"

"He does?" Legolas asked, interested. The fact that he didn't seem the least bit incredulous or unbelieving spoke volumes about Erestor's public image.

"Oh yes," Aragorn said eagerly, a wicked glint shining in his eyes as he leaned back against a bedpost and positioned his bandaged right wrist on his lap. "You know that room in the cellar? The one next to the wine cellar?"

Elrohir grinned as he stuffed the bandages and herbs he had taken out of the bags during his search back into it. This was one of Rivendell's legends, just like the troll that was supposed to live in the dungeons of Legolas' father. It was, in fact, his personal favourite.

Legolas merely nodded, a slightly dubious expression on his face.  
"Yes…?"

"Well," Aragorn continued, silver eyes widened dramatically, "Nobody is supposed to know about it, but rumour has it that Erestor is using it to store the bodies of all the elves he has killed for interfering with his work. Father is already thinking about assigning him another room, though. It appears to become rather … crowded."

"I see," Legolas nodded earnestly. "It explains a lot, now that I think about it."

"Indeed it does," Elrohir nodded cheerfully, returning to his twin's bedside. "Alright, my dear brother. I want you to drink this." Elladan merely stared at the cup Elrohir was offering him in the way a rabbit might have stared at a snake, and so he added, more threateningly, "You promised, Elladan!"

With a small scowl Elrond's oldest son grasped the goblet, apparently deciding that this was not worth upsetting his brother yet again.

"Yes, I did." He took a deep breath, looked at his brother for any signs of mercy (there were none) and quickly swallowed the mixture, grimacing when the foul taste assaulted his senses. "And I meant it," he added softly after a few moments, handing his twin the now empty cup. "I am sorry, _gwanur nín_. I know you just want to help me. I did not mean to worry you, I swear I did not."

For the first time since he had entered the room, Elrohir truly smiled at his brother.  
"I know that you didn't mean to worry us, Elladan. I am sorry for yelling at you earlier."

"No, you were right," his older brother admitted in an appropriately humble tone of voice.

"Yes, I was," Elrohir nodded smugly. "But as Estel said: It isn't your fault. If Erestor can see that, I can as well."

Elladan glowered at his two grinning brother and the equally amused woof-elf who perched on the windowsill, but their mirth soon proved to be infectious and so he, too, began to smile.  
"I will surely tell him as soon as he gets back."

"That might take some time," Aragorn commented thoughtfully, still grinning at his brothers, simply enjoying seeing both of them alive and well. "You know Erestor. He loves negotiations. For all we know, he might stay there for a few years to the simple purpose of annoying everyone into agreeing to whatever he proposes."

"No," Elladan shook his head. "He usually uses his Cold Glare of Death to intimidate his negotiating partners. He's so successful because most people are too afraid to disagree with him, let alone talk back to him." He leaned back into the pillows at his back, a grin beginning to spread over his face. "I'm sure he's doing that right now."

"Do you think so?" Aragorn narrowed his eyes. He still liked his interpretation of Erestor's negotiating tactics better.

"Oh yes," Elladan answered with conviction. "I would bet on it."

* * *

Elvynd had just enough time to realise that Lord Erestor was staring at what was happening around him with a more furious expression than he had ever seen on a living being's face before his instincts sprang to life. Adrenaline shot through his veins so fast that he could almost follow its progress, and before he had truly realised what he was doing, he had reined in his horse and jumped off its back.

Another shrill, pain-filled shriek made him wheel to the right almost as soon as his feet touched the ground, and he turned just in time to see another horse fall to the ground. Its rider managed to jump free of his falling mount, but he landed hard and for several long seconds he merely stared at his horse and the bloody foam that was covering its nostrils.

Elvynd could sympathise with the other elf's feelings, but this was not the time or place for them. In half a second he had covered the distance that lay between them and grasped him by the shoulder, turning him forcefully around. He almost forgot what he wanted to say when his eyes came to rest on a second group of humans that were assembling on the path behind them, effectively closing off their last route of escape.

Swallowing the dread and panic that welled up inside of him, Elvynd tightened his grip on the other's shoulder.  
"Protect Lord Erestor. Do you hear me? Protect him!"

The elf nodded silently, the brief moment of shock already over. He was already rushing to the advisor's side when Elvynd turned back to his remaining two men. Both of them had dismounted, having realised that their horses would only get shot if they remained on their backs. They had already drawn their bows and were beginning to return the men's barrage of missiles, their speed and skill buying them some time – at least for the moment.

"Aleneth!" he called to the elf who was closer to the men at their back. "Keep them busy! Taurwan!" he addressed the other, already beginning to run. "Cover me as long as you can! Don't wait for me and make for the river!"

"Sir?!"

"_Do it!!_"

Elvynd didn't stop to see if his men were obeying. He was sprinting towards the two horses that had fallen first, dodging arrows and what looked suspiciously like crossbow bolts on the way. The men who had ambushed them were slowly beginning to edge closer, but the well-aimed arrows that rained down on them with a speed no mortal archer could ever hope to achieve served to keep their progress slow and urged them to move carefully. He knew that Narucham and Cuilthen were most likely already dead, but he would _not _abandon his men without even trying to make sure.

For a second, Elvynd allowed himself to believe that maybe, only maybe of course, they might get out of this alive, but then three things seemed to happen simultaneously that dashed all the fragile hopes he had been harbouring for a short period of time.

The first thing was a sudden cry that sounded behind him. He did not stop his momentum but faltered shortly, turning his head, and when he saw what was happening he felt his blood turn to ice in a matter of half a second. As if in a trance he watched how the elf he had half a minute ago sent to protect Lord Erestor slowly fell backwards, a look of such surprise on his face that it made his heart break in his chest. The elf's failing eyes were fixed on a small crossbow bolt that protruded from his chest, as if he couldn't believe that it was real, before they rolled up into his head and he collapsed onto the road, lying utterly still. Elvynd was still looking at the dead elf when the dark haired advisor whom the warrior had tried to protect dove forward, grasped his bow and threw himself behind the very meagre protection a large boulder offered, displaying reflexes that were quite remarkable for a scholar.

Elvynd had just resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do to help and had turned back around when he noticed movement to his left, and his eyes widened even more when he saw a third group of men appear between the river and the path he was rushing down at the moment. They were still a bit away, trying to push themselves between the water and them from the north, but they would reach Lord Erestor and the others soon, and him even sooner. Much sooner.

The young captain had just enough time to shout a quick "_Na cheir_!" back at his men before he had to throw himself to the ground in order to avoid an arrow that had been aimed straight for his forehead, and when he scrambled back to his feet, intent on reaching his two fallen men, he felt how the last shreds of calmness he had somehow managed to preserve disintegrated swifter than snow in a furnace.

It seemed to him as if everything was happening in slow motion, including his own struggles to move. He had drawn close enough to the two fallen horses to see them clearly, and if the sight of the two dead animals was not enough to make him want to weep, the sight of Narucham most certainly was. The elf was lying on the ground, motionless and half-buried by his fallen mount. He had not been able to throw himself off the dying horse in time, and so he had been caught in the large animal's collapse. Only his upper body was visible, and Elvynd realised that all the older elf's experience and skill had not been enough to save his life. The dark haired warrior was staring sightlessly at the sky, his neck bent at an angle no neck had ever been meant to be bent.

Elvynd was still staring at the body of the elven warrior when he felt something slap against his upper chest, feeling just like one of the blows he had so often received from Isál when they had played as children. There was no sound that accompanied it, no sound at all, and so he needed some long moments until he finally decided that he should probably take a look. After a second or two he looked up again, a strange sense of detachment and calmness filling him he knew to be unnatural and only to be accredited to the dreamlike state he was still in. Detachment and calmness were not exactly two emotions most people would expect from a man or elf who had just discovered that there was a rather thick arrow protruding from the upper part of his torso.

He was still contemplating this when he felt how the arrow's impact sent him stumbling backward a few steps, the projectile's impact needing some time to register in his shock-numbed brain. The dark haired captain managed not to lose his footing, at least not right away, and he had just gathered enough presence of mind to try and make it over to the meagre cover the dead horses provided when his last hopes were destroyed as effectively as a crystal goblet under a troll's hammer.

One of the horses moved. That in itself wasn't all that shocking – he was far past being shocked by moving corpses of any kind – but rather the fact that it moved because someone was shifting it. A moment later a figure struggled to its feet, nothing more than torn clothes, long hair and dirt-covered, scratched skin, and began to run into his direction, and Elvynd felt how his heart fell straight into his stomach.

"Captain!"

Time still seemed to pass slowly, as if someone had poured a pot of invisible honey over him, but he still made a mighty effort to move as quickly as an elf with an arrow in his upper chest possibly could.  
"Down! Get _down_!!"

A frown flittered over the young elf's face as he seemed to realise just good a target he was presenting, but that small sign of doubt was quickly driven from his face in the moment Elvynd heard more than saw the arrow shaft connect with his back. The dark haired elf's back arched as he was thrown forward by the force of the impact and for a few moments he was able to stay on his feet, but then Cuilthen's strength gave out and he fell.

A scream he had not realised he was uttering rang in Elvynd's ears, and as soon as the younger elf's body hit the ground time seemed to speed up again, just like sound seemed to make a reappearance. There was not only his cry hanging in the air, there was also the sound of metal striking metal behind him, and the realisation that their time had run out and that the group behind him was attacking his two remaining men hit him just as he reached Cuilthen's body and collapsed next to him, his own injury catching up with him.

The sounds of the battle behind him faded, just like the sound of the humans that were hurrying now to reach them, and Elvynd slowly reached out with his left hand to turn the young elf over, mindful of the arrow that was protruding from his back. He couldn't have moved his right arm even if his life depended on it. A second later the thought struck him that his life very well depended on it, but Elvynd somehow couldn't find it in himself to care.

Cuilthen was still alive, but only barely. Elvynd had seen many people before they passed into the Halls of Waiting, many of them his friends and elves he had known for years, and yet he found himself shocked into inactivity by the sight of the young elf's white face and the thin trickle of blood that ran down his chin.

"Oh, _pen-neth_," he said, not noticing how rough his rough sounded. "Whatever did you do that for?"

The younger elf's eyes opened, and he blinked tiredly at his superior.  
"Cap…tain?"

"Yes, Cuilthen," Elvynd nodded stony-faced, doing his best to ignore the sounds of fighting and his own wound that was now sending stabs of pure agony through his body. "Don't speak. Save your strength."

Cuilthen smiled, or he tried to do so. It looked more like a grimace to Elvynd, however, and with a small stab of what could only be called weary acceptance he realised that he had less than a minute before he would be talking to a body whose _fëa_ had already left it.

"I'm sorry … that was … s-stupid…"

"No, young one," Elvynd shook his head slightly, trying with all his might to push back the despair in his heart and smile at the dying elf in his arms. "It was very, very brave. Lord Glorfindel would have been very proud." He closed his eyes for a moment before he opened them again and added, placing his working hand against the young elf's cheek, "_I _am very proud."

A more genuine smile spread over Cuilthen's face and he swallowed thickly, struggling to draw enough breath into his lungs.  
"N-narucham … Aleneth … others?"

Elvynd gritted his teeth and forced himself to look into the other's quickly dimming eyes, deciding that a lie was in this case much preferable to the truth.  
"Do not worry about them. They are fine."

The young elf nodded minutely, and Elvynd literally felt how the last reserves of the other's strength ran out and his heartbeat began to falter.  
"I … would have liked … t-to become one of the … best warriors you ever trained. I … really … would."

Elvynd closed his eyes once again as he heard the other's last, soft breath, and his fingers began to tremble when he felt how the young elf's heart finally gave up its struggles and stopped beating.  
"So would I, _pen-neth_. So would I."

He stared at the white, strangely peaceful of the young elf in his arms before he raised his head again, his hopes dashed and nothing but black despair in his heart. He heard the pounding of heavy boots behind him that were quickly coming closer, circumventing the fallen horses, but he ignored it. His vision blurred with unshed tears, but he strained his eyes and looked down the path, finally seeing what he had hoped with all his heart not to see. Never to see.

There was only one elf left standing, fighting about a dozen humans, he realised calmly, feeling how blood trickled down his chest with every slow heartbeat. There was also a throng of armed men surrounding the place where he had last seen Lord Erestor, and with sickening clarity Elvynd realised once and for all that none of them would escape. Aleneth, the elf who had still been fighting, was falling now, pierced by a javelin that a man had driven through his back, and his body joined that of his two dead comrades who were already lying on the road, surrounded by several dead men.

A sound behind him made Elvynd turn his head, nothing but sadness and anger in his heart, and he had just enough time to acknowledge the gleaming blade of a sword that cut through the air, the steel shining like polished silver.

The sword connected with his head, sending flames of instant agony through his entire body. A blinding light exploded in front of his eyes as Elvynd felt himself falling into darkness, and then, thankfully, he didn't feel anything at all.

TBC...

_  
Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
Dagor-nuin-Giliath (S.) - 'Battle-under-Stars', the Second Battle (Year One of the First Age). After the Noldor had destroyed Morgoth's orc army, Fëanor son of Finwë was mortally wounded by balrogs  
adan (S.) - human, man  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
yén (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
nana (S.) - mother (mummy)  
gwanur nín (S.) - my (twin) brother  
Na cheir! (S.) - To (your) left!  
pen-neth (S.) - young one  
fëa (Q.) - spirit, soul  
_

**  
•sighs contentedly• I got to kill innocent elves, write a tragic death scene and even ended the whole thing with a cliffy! Ahhh, life is good... •evil grin• My alter ego's feeling a lot better, too, so that's definitely a bonus. •g• So, unless FF-net goes bonkers, again, I'll try to update on Sundays from now on. That's rather convenient, anyway. Reviews are, as always, loved and cherished. Really. •g•  
**

* * *

**Additional A/N:**

**Tiryns** - You're right. There aren't enough (non-Slash) stories featuring Glorfindel and/or Erestor. They aren't very happy to be in my story, however - I have no idea why... •g• I liked Celeborn in the books (finally, a really wise Sinda! •g•), but the movies have ruined him for me, I'm afraid. •g Thanks for your review!  
**Red Tigress** - Uhm, yes, I do know that. It's rather depressing, really. •g• This month has really been slow, btw, and then FF-net broke down to top everything off. I'm still expecting it to go offline again. •shoots it suspicious looks• "Dudette"? LOL, that's an interesting word! I like it! •big grin•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - •g• "Bodily harm", eh? Well, that sounds uncomfortable! I'm sorry about the long updates, but I'm really afraid that won't change anytime in the near future. If I split each chapter in half to make them shorter, I'll end up with 50 or 60 chapters, and that's just something I won't do. •g• LOL, it's a good thing I couldn't update on time, then! "We are the World", huh? •shudders• What an idea...  
**Tineryn** - I really hope your parents will lift that "evil stricture" soon. It sounds horrible! LOL, you're right, Glorfindel is adorable and can't do a thing to change it. Poor elf. •g• I'm very sorry for not updating sooner, but this time it was FF-net's fault! It went back online yesterday night (at least it was night here), and then it was too late to update. Sorry. •gives FF-net hateful looks• I really loathe this page sometimes... •g• And Erestor angst is coming up ... well now, I guess.  
**HarryEstel** - Uhm, yes, he is. A fool, I mean. He always has been and he always will be, at least that's what I think. How he ever lived to become King of Gondor I will never understand... •g• Luck, I guess. Pure luck.  
**Arrina** - So you'll kill me if I kill Elvynd, huh? •looks at chapter• •turns back around• •thinks• Uhm, right. I guess I'll start running right about now... •g• I have to agree though, the kitten IS cute. I wanted to let them keep it, but then it would have got involved in this catastrophe and it didn't deserve that, the poor thing. •g•  
**Barbara Kennedy** - I think I have to agree. That's what I would do if I were his body, too. •g• LOL, yes, it would explain a lot if Aragorn's mind had in fact shut down for maintenance. Either that or the repeated blows to his head have caused his brain to dribble out of his ear. •g• Or both.  
**SeventhSpanishAngel12** - Uh, what was the matter with your computer? I hate it when the things shut down with no good reason... •grumbles and looks pointedly at her own, sometimes a little temperamental laptop• Sorry for making you edgy. It's indeed a side-effect of the whole gloom-and-doom thing. •g•  
**Alilacia** - Well, I was kidding. They don't need the satellite pictures of Lapland. It was a bad joke, but they're always like "And now all you need is form 24L/H.3. Filled out in triplicate, of course, in German, Swahili and Mongolic. Oh, and don't forget to photocopy each form, and..." I hate bureaucracy and paperwork, and the deadline is tomorrow. •glares at Socrates-people• I hate you. Yes, you. Oh, and btw, I have no idea why people do the playing-with-their-cups thing. I never do that. •shrugs• I didn't notice the resemblance to Arwen, and it was not intentional, but you're right. I guess I could use it for some really interesting Aragorn-angst-bits in later stories... •evil grin•  
**Elvingirl3737** - Oh, don't worry about that. RL can be devilishly busy, especially so close to Christmas. •winces• I'm still trying to ignore the fact that it's in less than a month. LOL, yes, I think you're right. Erestor and his guards are indeed headed for some serious trouble.•g• Great you liked the kitten, though. I love cats myself.. •huggles her cats•  
**Crippled Raven** - •hastily• I am planning nothing for Elvynd. Really, I am not. My alter ego is. •evil grin• I'm glad to hear that you're better, even though the chest infection doesn't sound all that good. I love Ibuprofen myself, though, it got me through a really nasty ear infection a year ago. •g• And, as unhappy as I am to admit it, I am not multi-lingual! I can only speak English (Latin and Ancient Greek don't really count, do they?) and a little Spanish. And English is a lot easier to learn than German. It's a very simple language, really - which doesn't stop me from making mistakes once in a while. •sheepish smile• Oh, and the little mistake was "... meine Hausaufgaben nicht gemacht", not "nichts". "Nichts" is "nothing", not "not". •re-reads sentence• Jeez, that sounds stupid. •g• So you live close to Colchester, huh? That's really not far from where I usually am! Bishop's Stortford is in fact not in Essex, it's Hertfordshire, I think. You know Stansted Airport, I guess, or Saffron Walden? There. •g• And I know exactly what you mean, some American tourists can be really quite ... annoying. I went through the same a few times, even though it might have helped that I wasn't even English. Oh, you have an AGA? My friends have one, too, and I love it! In the beginning, I was really sceptical, but now I love it! Using it for heating sounds rather ... cold, though. •g• I hope your exams went well and that you won't freeze to death. It's been known to happen. •g•  
**Marbienl** - Elizabeth Bathory again, huh? No, she isn't like that, and she won't drink any blood. She's the one, isn't she? •shudders• Those peopel you come up with... LOL, killing the guards is a big no-no? Well... •looks at chapter• Sorry about that... •g• A watch cat? That's certainly an interesting idea ... even though I have problems imagining a cat guarding something. My cats most certainly wouldn't. •g• LOL, yes, you found the Simposons bit! Congrats! I was really surpised there were so few people who noticed it - isn't anyone watching the Simpsons anymore? •shakes head• Really... •takes Jack Sparrow doll• Well, I'll let it go - for now. Only this once, though! •g• I can imagine what "wheeling" is, but what in the name of the Valar is "braiding"? No, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know. I have to admit that I was surprised you didn't want to have it beforehand, but I guess it would have ruined all the fun. •g• Sensible choice, really.  
**Jazmin3 Firewing **- Well, I am not out for his blood. My alter ego is. That's a difference. I think. •g• No, really? You have problems with being nice to people? Why, I'd never have suspected! •insert incredulous grimace here• No, j/k. •g• I have the same problem. If people are stupid, I have serious trouble putting up with them, no matter how nice they are. •shrugs• Thanks a lot; the deadline for the exchange program is tomorrow. I should get an answer in one or two months...  
**Elvendancer** - Hmm, yes, you might be right. That really could happen, and I think it would drive Isál and the rest of the guards insane. We can't do that to them, can we? Stupid question, of course we can, but not even I am that evil. •g•  
**Aratfeniel** - As long as you like it... •shrugs• That's fine with me. I have no idea how Toran could possibly think that Erestor is annoying. He isn't, is he? •shakes head• No, not Erestor... He's nice and quiet. Not annoying at all. •g•  
**Grumpy** - LOL, well, at least these elves can't read English. Either that or they simply don't understand the words you're using. Erestor: What does this word "Doom" mean? Elvynd: I have no idea, my lord. Maybe the same as "Sunshine"? •g• Yeah, a simple misunderstanding. •g•  
**Armageddon5** - Thanks a lot for pointing that out. I do that quite often - translating something into English without thinking about whether or not it would be the same term. •hits herself• Stupid. And I'll try to remember the whole he-thing in the future. "Try" being the main word here - I have a memory like a sieve. •g• So you have cookies, huh? Well, in that case I think I WILL update... •g• Thanks a lot for your review!  
**Nietta** - Yeah, okay, I admit it. It was the cave-in's main purpose, you're right. Oh, and I wanted to hurt them, but that's beside the point. •g• I'm very glad to hear that you like Acalith - I was rather nervous about her in the beginning. You can never be to careful with OFCs - who knows when they'll develop Mary-Sueish qualities? •shudders at mere thought• Oh, and I know that silence. That's why I always start talking as fast as I can until someone stops me. •g• I'm sure your exams weren't that bad! It always turns out to be not quite as bad as you think, doesn't it? LOL, it's my pleasure to post! Gern geschehen!  
**Crystal-Rose15** - LOL, the "overall feeling of cuteness", huh? Well, that is an aspect I'd previously missed... •g• I like your mental image of Aragorn the Pumpkin. A rather interesting idea!•g• Strange, but interesting...  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - You're crafty. Very, very crafty. Saving it onto a disk is a very, very clever idea! •g• My cats are doing exactly the same thing, too - if they're in a good mood, that is. If they're in a bad mood, they are a little more dangerous. And devioud, don't forget devious. •g• Why doesn't your cat like your parents and your sister? Did they do something horrible to him, or is he just mean like Rashwe? •g• I'm glad you liked this chapter. As I promised, things are beginning to get interesting in this one. •evil grin• Well, it was about time, too, wasn't it? So there is a file with my name on it, huh? Wow, I'm honoured! •g•  
**Elitenschwein** - •g• Ja, "germanisierte" englische Woerter sind immer lustig. Wie "posten" oder "reviewen" oder solche Sachen... •g• Momentan ist noch gar nicht sicher, ob ich ueberhaupt irgendwo gehe •gibt Erasmusmitarbeitern boese Blicke•, aber wenn alles so geht, wie es soll, dann wird's wahrscheinlich Spanien werden. Ich kann allerdings nicht wirklich genug Spanisch (auf jeden Fall noch nicht), wenn das also nichts wird, dann wird's wohl England werden. UCL in London hoert sich doch auch ganz nett an, oder? Sprachmaessig waere Spanien allerdings besser... •zuckt Schultern• Mal sehen, was Erasmus dazu sagt. •g• Den Silmarillion lesen wirklich nur die Tolkien-Freaks, glaube ich. Alle anderen geben spaetestens nach der "Valaquenta" auf. •g• Ach ja, der TOEFL Test. Bei mir reichte Gottseidank der HU-interne Test, sonst haett' ich das auch machen muessen. Ich hasse solche Tests. •schuettelt sich• HH mag ich allerdings auch! Ich habe 'ne Zeit lang in HL gewohnt, und kenne darum die Stadt logischerweise relativ gut. Ist so ziemlich auch meine einzige Alternativstadt... •g• Zufall, was?  
**Radbooks** - LOL, yes, clues, clues everywhere. I love dropping hints. •g• I can tell you, however, that the ring (or Acalith, for that matter) has nothing to do with Rivendell. Even though it HAS bridges. •g• And she isn't part elf. There were three recorded cases of elves marrying men (or four if you count the whole Mithrellas-and-Imrazôr thing), including Aragorn and Arwen, and if there is one thing I hate, it is the whole "Oh look! Another half-elf!" thing. •grumbles• Sorry about that. It just really annoyes me. •sheepish grin• I didn't let them keep the kitten because I didn't want it to get involved in all this. I love cats, too. •g•  
**Ventinari** - Okay, I am not telling you that all the guards die. Happy? •evil grin• LOL, I think you could say that. Gasur has indeed BIG issues... •g• Trust me, you don't know half of it. •g• I like elf angst, you're right, so don't worry about the Erestor angst. There will be quite a lot of it, even though he will also get the opportunity to give dramatic speeches. •looks at chapter 12• Jeez, he really enjoys them, doesn't he? •g• Oh, did I miss Thanksgiving? I'm sorry, we don't really celebrate it here. I hope you had lots of fun and didn't spend too much time cooking!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - •shrugs• Don't blame me. That's wood-elf-logic. You can't argue with that. •g• Great you liked the cat. I love them myself, and hadn't even been planning to put it in here. It just ... well, appeared. Don't ask me how or why. •g• I'm afraid I have to correct you, though. Gasur's fondest desire is in fact elf torture, even though he'd love to get his hands on a ranger as well. You'll find out why in ... well, a few chapters. •evil grin• I hope you'll enjoy the cliffy! •g•  
**Kathleen LaCorneille** - I think elves ARE weird, mad people! Aren't they? •g• Glad you liked it. We all have to accept the fact that the Firstborn are three fries short of a Happy Meal... •g• And no, I wouldn't "kill, hurt or pain" Elvynd in any way. That's my alter ego's job. •evil grin• I agree with you, btw: Gasur is indeed mad. AND he likes Acalith. I'm not really sure where I'm going with that, but he definitely does. •g• I hope you didn't get sick, too? Lots of people are right now!  
**Tychen** - Yeah, FF-net is really a tiny bit annoying, isn't it? Sometimes I really wonder whether it's doing it on purpose, just to make my life miserable... •shrugs• Ah well. Whatever. LOL, there is a "disposable sidekick list"? That's really not good - I should warn Celylith, Isál and all the others... •g• It's probably a good thing he doesn't know about it then... Poor elf. •huggles him•

**Alright, I'm off to eat lots of cake now! Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews! •huggles reviewers except Jazmin3 Firewing•**


	11. Canicula

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**  
A/N:**

**Well. Uhm ... hi, guys. Long time no see, huh? •readers growl and reach for swords, daggers, axes, chainsaws etc.• I won't even try to apologise. I simply forgot the fact that I had a presentation on Monday afternoon. The hours which I didn't spend working on it during the past week can be counted on the fingers of one hand, and I simply had no time at all to update. I don't really have the time to update today either, but since I am feeling very, very guilty I decided not to reply this time so I can update after all. I just got home (it's nearly 10 p.m. here), so it's either this or no post at all. I hope you're not too angry with me. •smiles sheepishly•**

**Hmm, let me see. Yes, about the names. Quite a few people found out the meaning of "Cuilthen" (Short-life) and Aleneth (No-Name). I would have preferred to call Aleneth Peneneth since "Al-" actually negates something rather than signifying the lack of something, but I was afraid someone would get it mixed up with the more commonly known "Pen-neth". Taurwan is "Taur-gwann"(lenited Taur-'wann) and means something like "Awfully/overwhelmingly-Dead" (poor guy). "Red-Hand" for Narucham is quite close already, even though that would have been "Narugam" ("c", when undergoing lenition, changes into "g"). It actually means "Red-Garment" (Naru-hamp - lenited Naru-champ). I took away the "-p" - call it dramatic licence. •g• So Elvynd's men were called "Short-life", "No-Name", "Awfully-Dead" and "Red-Shirt". Honestly, people, what chance did they have to make it out of that kind of situation in one piece? Just ask Captain Kirk. •g• **

**  
Alright, alright, I'm shutting up. Before I forget: This chapter title alludes to the last chapter's, "The Die Is Cast" (Alea iacta est), which were, as you probably know, the words Caesar - allegedly - spoke before he crossed the Rubicon. I thought it to be funny to keep this title "Latin", too: Canicula (Little Dog) or Canis (Dog) was the lowest throw you could get, with all four dice showing the lowest picture, the dog. I thought it was rather appropriate, since neither the evil men nor Erestor are overly happy which the results of their actions. Hmm, now that I think about it, no one is really happy in this chapter. I wonder why? •g•**

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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Chapter 11 

Reod sheathed his sword with a quick, fluid movement, the fierce grimace on his face already beginning to fade. The rage and excitement that had pulsed through him for the past few minutes were abating, too, fading into the background and once again allowing him to think more clearly.

There was nothing like a battle to make you feel alive, he decided once again. Nothing compared to the addictive, enthralling combination of pure exhilaration, fear and power, nothing at all. Even though, he admitted to himself, somewhat reluctantly, this battle had been different from all the other battles he had fought in the past. As refreshing as it was to have something like that change for once, he was rather sure that he did not like it one bit.

Firstly, the man thought, deeply irritated, it shouldn't take you seventeen of your own men to kill five people. Secondly, said five people shouldn't be able to nearly escape the trap you had devised. Thirdly, the selfsame people should most definitely not been able to hold off your thirty men for a prolonged amount of time. Not even when the five people were elves.

The man shook his head darkly, quickly brushing a strand of chestnut brown hair out of his eyes and growling under his breath when that movement served to reopen the cut above his eye. He had never really believed the rumours one could hear about the Fair Folk, something he regretted by now. Had he known just what elves were capable of – or, in this case, had been capable of – he would have made sure to take at least a dozen more men.

Reod stopped for a moment, next to the body of the last elf who had fallen less than a minute ago. The dark haired being's eyes were open, seeming to stare straight at him, but Reod did not care, did not even feel the slightest hint of remorse. Those who were in his line of work lost things like remorse or, the Gods forbid, a conscience very quickly – if they were clever, that was. Otherwise, they just got themselves killed, either by their own men or their enemies.

For a few moments, he looked at the dead being with interest, his eyes wandering over the fair features and pointed ears that were barely visible beneath the long hair, but then he turned away with a slightly annoyed shake of his head. No, he hadn't felt pity for those he had killed for quite a long time, but somehow he had the rather disconcerting impression that the faces of these dead elves would return to haunt him in the night if he was not careful. He could not identify the strange feeling that was stirring in his breast; a vague feeling that he and his men had killed beings that shouldn't even exist anymore, like ancient myths. He was a superstitious man, a weakness he didn't like to admit even to himself, and he had the very distinct feeling that to kill a myth was something on which the Gods did not look too kindly.

"Captain?"

The voice of one of his lieutenants drew him out of his thoughts, and Reod turned around, very glad about being interrupted.  
"Yes?"

The younger man met his gaze evenly, something which he never would have done had he been Captain Gasur. Gasur was universally disliked by most of the soldiers (including, if he was honest, Reod himself), but that dislike was dwarfed by the healthy amount of fear, if not terror, that most of them also harboured for the brown haired captain. Reod knew that he himself was more popular, mostly because he was not quite as ruthless, but he also knew that the men only regarded him as the lesser of two evils.

"Your orders, sir?" the soldier asked respectfully.

Reod hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should consult Gasur first, but then he decided against it with a small stab of anger. He had served their lady far longer than this upstart who was not even from Donrag, and even though Gasur was nominally in command of this mission he was the senior captain here. Besides, he didn't even know where that brown haired braggart was, did he?

"Set a guard on the road behind us," he ordered curtly, trying to cover his brief moment of indecision. "Then take two men and try to find the elves' horses that ran off. I am sure our lady would be most pleased about a few additional mounts of their quality."

"Yes, sir," the man nodded obediently, already turning to obey his captain's orders. "The elf, sir," he added suddenly, returning his attention to the brown haired man in front of him. He gestured over to his left, into the direction of the river. "What shall we do with him?"

"Why, Lieutenant," Reod began with deceiving friendliness, "I want to have a jolly cup of tea with him, of course! I hope the water is already boiling and the table is laid? Oh, and don't forget the honey and the little biscuits!"

The lieutenant ducked his head, already knowing what was coming. He knew Captain Reod well, as well as you could only know someone in a small town such as theirs, and he was perfectly aware of the fact that it was usually a good idea to dive for cover when Reod discovered his sarcastic streak.

Reod, completely oblivious to his subordinate's feelings, took the time to give the group of people that was surrounding the only survivor of the elven travelling party a quick look. His men had apparently managed to disarm the elf they had been ordered to bring before their lady, but it seemed as if they were having some trouble actually getting a hold of him long enough to bind him.

"What do you think you should do with him?" he finally replied incredulously. "Bring him here, of course! And don't let him get away or, by the Gods, it will be you who'll have to answer for it! Do you understand, Genrir?"

"Yes, sir," Genrir nodded again, eyeing the men who were still trying to subdue the apparently rather irate elf with renewed interest. Reod's unveiled threat seemed to have awoken a new desire in his heart, namely to secure the prisoner before he could get away and get him into any trouble. "Perfectly, sir."

"Good," Reod nodded as well and dismissed the younger man with a wave of his hand. He had already turned away and taken a few steps down the road when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned back with a rather unwilling expression on his face. "Do you know where Captain Gasur is?"

"I last saw him where we killed their vanguard, sir," Genrir answered readily. "He should still be there."

"Of course he should be," Reod muttered under his breath and turned back around without thanking the lieutenant for the information. "Where else would he be?"

Indeed, where else would Gasur be, he asked himself darkly while he picked his way through the remains of the battle and did his best not to stumble over dead bodies. If there was one thing he was certain about – and, in fact, the whole of Donrag was certain about – it was that Gasur relished death – other people's deaths, that was. He knew quite a few soldiers who did, too, but there were none who got that certain … gleam in their eyes.

No, Reod corrected himself almost immediately, that was not true. He knew a lot of soldiers who had the exact same gleam in their eyes, only not to the same extent. There were many warriors who lived for the feeling of their blades biting into an enemy's flesh and the fear in the other men's eyes, but Gasur was an extreme case. That was not really surprising, however, at least not in Reod's opinion. The brown haired captain was only one step away from plummeting into the dark abyss of madness, at least that was what he thought. No, Reod corrected himself again. Gasur was already dangling over said abyss, and the fingers of the one hand that was still grabbing the edge were beginning to slip. And quickly, too.

He abandoned that rather interesting, not to mention amusing, mental image as he sidestepped the body of yet another man who seemed to have got hit by an arrow over to the right. close to the hillside, and had dragged himself over here before he'd died. Reod realised with some surprise that he knew the dead man who was lying on his side, his tunic covered with blood and other things he made no effort whatsoever to identify. It had been that young lad, the one who had joined their small army only a few months ago. 'Ah well,' the captain thought to himself with an inward shrug, 'he never did know when to duck.'

A man who knew perfectly well when to duck and stay alive in general was right now slowly straightening back up, a long and rather bloody – no, make that very bloody – sword in his hands. Not even realising he was giving an inward, not-so-soft sigh Reod made a real effort to produce something that could have been called a smile and took a few steps forward, coming to a stop next to the brown haired man who was still staring at the two bodies in front of him.

For a few moments, it was silent while Reod waited for the other captain to speak, and when it became apparent that Gasur would do no such thing, he gave another inward sigh, this time even louder. Gasur might not be the most intelligent person ever to grace this world, but he was crafty, proud and very, very stubborn. Reod contemplated not actually saying anything, but quickly decided against it. They didn't have the time for games like these.

"Well," he finally began, giving the two dark haired elves who were lying motionlessly at his feet a cursory glance, "They're dead."

Gasur actually seemed to startle at the other's words and he blinked slowly, his eyes wandering from the two bodies to his sword and back again.  
"Yes."

"Did you kill them?"

"The one, yes," the brown haired man nodded, a content smile spreading over his face. He sheathed his blood-stained sword, a satisfied air surrounding him, the air of a man who had just combined pleasure with work in a highly enjoyable way. "The other one was dead when we got here." He paused for a moment and shook his head, his eyes quickly flickering to give the other captain a puzzled look. "The first one saw me coming and didn't even try to beg."

Reod arched an eyebrow, entirely unprepared for such a conversation. Gasur and he were not on overly friendly terms, and there was no real reason why the other man should talk with him about anything other than what they would do now and how many men they'd lost.  
"Would you have?"

"Begged?" Gasur asked as he returned his attention to one of his leather bracer that had come loose half an inch or so. "An elf?" He snorted, but there was a dark glint in his eyes that belied the smirk on his face. "Never."

It was always wise not to believe everything Gasur said, especially when he said things like "I did not kill these men", "I have no idea what you are talking about" or "I was a farmer in Bree before I came here". It was usually a safe bet to assume that he had, in fact, killed the persons in question and knew exactly what his conversational partner was talking about, and if there was one thing all of Donrag agreed on, it was that Gasur had been neither a farmer nor had he set foot anywhere near Bree in his entire life. This one thing was something Reod believed immediately and without hesitation, however: That he would never beg an elf for anything.

Well, he wouldn't really get into a position when something like that would become necessary, the superstitious part of Reod shrugged inwardly. If the Elves ever found out what had happened here, none of them would have to beg them for anything, because he very much doubted that they would be inclined to listen.

"Where are the rest of your men?" Reod finally asked, deciding – correctly – that Gasur most likely wouldn't want to hear this particular conclusion.

"Why, Reod," Gasur finally wrenched his eyes away from the two fallen elves and gave him a long, emotionless look. "They are doing their duty, of course."

Reod raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for patience.  
"Have you set up a watch on the road ahead? And on top of the hill?" he finally asked, displaying – in his opinion – commendable patience.

"Of course I have," Gasur replied and flicked an invisible speck of dirt off his admittedly rather dirty shirt. He looked up again and met the other captain's eyes steadily, an easily visible warning in the cold, light brown eyes. "Do you think I am an amateur?"

"No," Reod shook his head quickly, an entirely instinctive reaction. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to have Gasur as an enemy. "If there is one thing you are not, Captain, it is an amateur."

The manner of address seemed to have pacified the other man, since he only nodded and turned slightly to the side, letting his eyes wander over the men, wounded and unwounded, who were busy collecting their dead and loading them on their former mounts. Gasur even had reason to take pride in his rank, Reod admitted inwardly. Donrag was a small town with a comparably small guard corps, and so there were only two captains: He and Gasur. To rise higher was simply not possible, at least not for a simple soldier.

"How many men did you lose?"

Gasur's question brought him out of his thoughts, and Reod shook his head minutely.

"Eleven," he finally said in a gruff voice. It wasn't that he was actually feeling regret for his men's death, but he was most decidedly angry that they had been killed so quickly with doing comparably little damage in return. Well, that had been at first, he added smugly.

"Eleven," Gasur repeated curtly. "I lost six."

"That's seventeen," Reod nodded, not really knowing why he had said that. Even Gasur should be able to add six and eleven, shouldn't he?

"That's actually quite good," Gasur shrugged casually. "I had expected worse."

"_Worse_?" Reod repeated, flabbergasted. "We lose seventeen to kill five! I don't know about you, but I'd call that a rather lopsided win-loss ratio!"

"Against their kind, it's more than decent," the other man shrugged again, unconcerned by the older captain's exasperation. "We surprised them, otherwise we'd lost ten more. At least."

Footsteps behind them drew their attention, quite a lot of footsteps, and both of them turned around. Half a minute later Lieutenant Genrir and the rest of the men stopped in front of them, most of them looking rather bloody and dishevelled. A second later the group parted, and a dark haired, bruised elf was shoved forward and pulled to a stop in front of the two captains. It looked very much as if the only thing keeping him from lunging at the humans was the ropes that bound his wrists securely behind his back.

From where he was standing next to Gasur, Reod could actually watch how the dark, anticipatory grin crept over the brown haired captain's face and into his eyes.

"Still," Gasur said nonchalantly, resuming their earlier conversation as if nothing had happened, "Seventeen dead men are a tad disproportionate. What do you think, _elf_?"

"What I think," the dark haired elf retorted evenly in soft, accentless Westron, "is none of your business, _human_. What I know, however, is this: Cut me loose and there will not be seventeen, but eighteen _very _dead men lying on this road."

"Will there?" Gasur asked friendly, pursing his lips in thought. "That's interesting. Then I am not going to do that, am I?"

The men surrounding them chuckled dutifully, but the elf did not seem to be amused at all, which might have been a little too much to ask, too. There was no emotion visible on his face, and only his dark eyes betrayed the anger he felt, an anger of the sort that seemed to fill the entire space around him. The self-satisfied part of Reod was shrinking faster than a plate of mushrooms at a hobbit's birthday party while his superstitious part was all but yelling "I told you so!" Dealing with elves was nothing but trouble, that it was.

Gasur's hand shot out without warning, startling Reod suddenly out of his musings, and the brown haired captain's fingers closed around one of the elf's arms and dragged him closer.  
"What is your name, elf?"

If there was a way to convey to someone else that he was a disgusting, slimy, worm-like creature that had just crawled out of some murky pond by raising only one eyebrow, the elf had found it and perfected it.  
"My name, _móradan_, is also none of your business."

Gasur's eyes narrowed, and most of the men that had gathered around them took a hasty step backwards. It was clear that the captain didn't understand what the word meant, but he was intelligent enough to put two and two together and decide that it was nothing complimentary. He tightened his grip on the other's arm and pulled him forward, jerking him to a stop in front of the two dead elves that still lay where they had fallen.

"Look at your men, elf," he hissed at the other being and shook him brutally. "Look at them! We killed five of your accursed kind already; I have absolutely no problem with killing a sixth! Look at them, your _protectors_, and remember this sight before you open your mouth again! Remember it well!"

"Your name, elf," Reod interjected now, apparently deciding that it was time that he said something, too. "Answer him."

"He is too high and mighty to answer us, isn't he?" Gasur asked spitefully and tightened his grip even further, his fingers digging into the dark haired elf's flesh. "Or maybe he just can't believe that we, a group of puny, simple men, killed his oh-so-powerful warriors, hm? That we killed them as easily as if they had been cattle waiting to be slaughtered?"

He said more, his voice growing ever more hateful, but Erestor was long past listening. He was still numb with what had happened in the past half-hour, numb with the shock of seeing his companions cut down in front of his eyes. He was not composed or calm enough yet to feel anything but anger and hatred, and these emotions only flared to even brighter life when he looked at the two still bodies no more than two feet in front of him.

It was hard to tell, but even with all the blood that was covering their bodies Erestor could see that it was Cuilthen and Elvynd. The older elf had slumped over Cuilthen's body, his features almost invisible under a thick layer of blood, as if he had been holding him in his arms when he had been struck down. Sadness mingled with the blazing anger, and Erestor had to force himself to keep up an emotionless façade. 'Oh Glorfindel, my reckless, loyal friend, you would have been proud of them.'

He was yanked around while he was still finishing his last thought, and only now did he realise that the dark haired, cold-eyed man had stopped gloating and was looking at him expectantly, as was the rest of the men. Well, he thought, fury and hatred colouring his vision a bloody red, if they wanted to hear what he thought, they would.

"You will die," he said slowly and very, very calmly, as thought he was stating nothing but that rain was wet. "You will die, all of you, and all of those who have aided you in this in any way. My lord will seek revenge against you for what you have done, and so will the Valar themselves. You are cursed, cursed to a death by the hands of my kin, cursed as surely as if Mandos himself had spoken these words. Your doom is wrought, and will have consumed you by this season's end, this I swear to you by Manwë Súlimo himself and by Varda Elentári his queen." He smiled thinly, a smile that held no warmth or mirth at all. "My people are known for many things, and among them is the fact that we never, ever, break an oath."

Reod did not say anything, too frozen with fear to even think clearly – a behaviour that was mirrored by most of the men present. Most of them had heard tales about the Elves since they had been children, and the claim that their race practiced dark magic was one of the more harmless ones. The elf's words, spoken in such a calm, matter-of-fact tone of voice had affected the soldiers more than any of them would have admitted.

Gasur didn't say anything for a few moments, but then he drew back and delivered a blow to the dark haired being's face that nearly would have knocked him to the ground.  
"You did not listen to me," he said mildly while two of the men dragged the elf back to his feet. "But that is just fine. It's more fun this way."

He turned to the side, grinning, and nodded at one of his men.  
"Take him over to the horses and get ready to leave. We'll join you in a moment."

The man bowed and obeyed without question, and a few moments later all the men were gone, some of them escorting their prisoner over to the group of trees where they had left the horses and some of them collecting the last of their dead. Gasur watched them for a moment, the grin still on his face, before he turned back to his fellow captain.  
"He is that Lord Erestor or whatever his name is."

"He'd better be," Reod retorted with a pointed look at the two elves at their feet. "Or our lady will be very displeased indeed."

"He is the one," Gasur nodded confidently. "Why, Reod, don't you trust me?"

Luckily for the older man Gasur didn't expect him to answer that question but rather turned around and followed his men. Reod merely stared after him for a moment, inwardly shaking his head at the other captain and the world in general.

No, he did not trust Gasur. He did not trust him at all, he thought to himself while he was following him down the road. He trusted the younger captain about as much as he would trust a wolf not to kill a helpless fawn, or as much as he would trust the surviving elf not to kill him with his bare hands should he ever get the chance.

And that, he decided with a look at the dark haired elf who seemed to exude anger and hatred in palpable waves, was not much at all. **  
****  
****  
**

'Idiot.' Salir took a step forward, inwardly still seething. 'Braggart. Cretin. Moron. Show-off.' He stopped a moment, trying to come up with the exact, most deprecating word that would describe the son of an orc more commonly known as Gasur. '_Soldier_.'

Salir interrupted his pacing and stepped up to the railing that encircled the northern balcony of his lady's house. Yes, 'soldier' was indeed the perfect word for Gasur. He was stupid, possessed positively no education at all and was nothing but a blundering, annoying nuisance that failed to show his betters the respect they were due. Other than that, the seneschal thought more objectively, he was also scaring the wits out of him, something that he was by absolutely no means willing to admit.

He had had more than enough time to think about it, and he had come to the rather galling conclusion that he was indeed afraid of Gasur. He was not afraid of the threats the captain had uttered a few days ago – just how should that man ever do even a fifth of what he had boasted about? – but … well, he was simply afraid.

That was nothing exceptional, especially when the person in question was Gasur. It was most people's opinion that the brown haired captain was mad or well on his way of becoming so, and every single reasonable man or woman was therefore afraid of him. For most of the time, Gasur was normal or as normal as the rest of the people living in Donrag, but there were times when he was most certainly nothing of that sort. Then, things got out of control, most of the time immensely so, just like that little incident involving the warehouses and the guards.

If he was really lucky, Salir decided darkly, Gasur would fail to capture the elf and die. There were many things that could happen in a battle, even in a minor one as the one that had most probably been fought. Men could stumble and fall into their own swords or those of their enemies (such things did happen), men could get in the way of stray arrows or a well-aimed sword stroke (such things did definitely happen), and men could turn up after a battle with a mortal wound in their back instead of their chest. Such things happened as well, in every army of this world, and most frequently when the man in question was a brutal, unpopular officer.

The only problem was, however, that he had no success whatsoever imaging Gasur being killed in a fight, not even by an elf. He knew of the captain's almost fanatical hatred for their race, but he simply could not see Gasur die in this ambush. The brown haired captain would have planned it well, he would not take even the slightest chance that one of the elves might possibly escape, and he would therefore not get into the position of being in any danger whatsoever from one of them.

The other two possibilities were also highly unlikely, at least in his opinion. He had known Gasur for roughly six months (six long, horribly nerve-wrecking months), and not once had the other man stumbled over anything, not to mention fallen into something. Least of all his own sword. And the chances of the soldiers of Gasur's guard solving the entire problem for him by simply killing their captain were … what was it they said? Slim to none.

That brought him to the very interesting question of what he should do about that annoying, perfect little soldier. He was nothing more than a nuisance, a troublesome problem that simply refused to go away – yet. Salir was old and experienced enough to know that Gasur had been right about one thing these few days ago: Things did indeed change. In his experience they very seldom changed abruptly, but rather bit by bit, almost undetected until it was too late.

He would not fall into this very obvious trap.

Salir turned around again and renewed his pacing, a part of his attention fixed firmly on the dark path that was just visible from his vantage point. But what should he do? He could attack directly, certainly, even thought that was a course of action he had never been overly fond of. Still, there were many ways people could fall into disfavour, and many things people could be accused of in front of their lady. Open attacks could be very effective, but they could backfire on you easily, far too easily.

Especially, he reminded himself, when the man you wanted to attack was Gasur. He had proven many times that he was not as stupid as he appeared to be (or not _quite _as stupid as he appeared to be) and that he could be a very dangerous opponent, even in what Salir considered 'his' terrain. He shuddered slightly when he remembered the smile Gasur had given him at the end of their last conversation. An open confrontation, he decided quickly, was out of the question.

That only left something more subtle. Subtlety, however, had never been something he had had a particular problem with, and he was reasonably certain that it was a trait that Captain Gasur mainly lacked. He was a soldier after all, Salir mused, and soldiers were not exactly known for subtlety or refinement.

What they were known for, however, he began once again, returning to his earlier subject, was obstinacy. Impudence. Idiocy. Presumptuousness. General mental deficiency. Impertin…

Salir stopped in mid-thought when his senses told him that he was no longer alone. Even though valiant heroes like Gasur and his fellow captain, Reod, would never admit it, he possessed keen senses and a power of perception that rivalled even their best scouts'. If you wanted to retain your position as Lady Acalith's chief advisor and her seneschal, you were in dire need of keen senses, and said keen senses were right now telling him that someone else had stepped onto the balcony and had stopped somewhere behind him.

The grey haired seneschal thought quickly. The number of people who had access to this balcony was highly manageable, and there were not many of those who were actually allowed to be here that could surprise him like this. Salir sighed inwardly, the familiar mix of loyalty and anxiety once again rising inside of him. Sometimes he was really willing to swear that his lady was part wraith.

Salir took a calming breath and turned around.  
"Good evening, my lady."

The dark haired woman did not react immediately or even turned to look at him, her hands resting on the wooden balustrade and her eyes fixed on the darkness below them. It remained silent for a while, and just when Salir was beginning to try and come up with a way of making his escape in a stealthy and silent manner, she turned her head ever so slightly and gave him what passed as a friendly nod by her standards.

"Salir."

The man gave her a deep bow, but did not say anything. The silence once again settled over the balcony like a dark blanket, and the seneschal was contemplating flight for a second time when his lady's voice could be heard again, sounding low and confident.

"They will arrive soon."

Salir blinked, something that was invisible in the darkness that lay over the lands.  
"Yes, my lady."

"It is a good plan," Acalith went on, seemingly speaking to her long, slender hands. "Even a very good plan. Captain Gasur and Captain Reod will be able to complete the mission without any major complications."

"Yes, my lady."

The short, obedient answer prompted the young woman to turn around and look at the grey haired man, interest flickering to life in her eyes.  
"What do you think of him, Salir?"

"Captain Reod, my lady?" Salir asked innocently in a rather obvious attempt to stall.

Acalith gave him a look cold enough to chill the fires of Mount Doom.  
"Captain Gasur."

"I am but your seneschal, my lady," the man bowed his head, trying his best to escape this situation without losing one or more limbs. "It is not my place to judge your warriors."

The dark haired woman raised a slightly annoyed eyebrow.  
"Yes, you are my seneschal – _I _appointed you and can demote you any time I see fit, as I should probably mention. You are, however, also one of my advisors, are you not?" Salir nodded faintly without raising his eyes, and so she added, "Well then, advisor, do your duty! Advise me!"

Salir cursed inwardly and looked for the most diplomatic words that came to his mind in combination with Gasur.  
"He is … a good soldier," he finally began somewhat reluctantly. "His men obey him without question, and the loyalty he displays to you is … convincing."

Acalith's other eyebrow rose in faint amusement. Once again Salir wondered how such a ruthless being could look so undeniably lovely.  
"You do not like him."

It was a statement, not a question, and Salir knew better than to deny his antipathy.  
"I do not trust him, my lady," he shook his head slightly. "Ambition can lead a man to greatness, but it can also eat him away from the inside out. In Gasur's case, it is finished with his insides and is reaching his brain right about now."

Acalith threw back her head and laughed, something that was almost unheard of. A part of Salir was captivated by the soft, lilting sound, but another part of him was simply speechless. If there was one thing everyone in this town knew, it was that Lady Acalith seldom smiled since the death of her husband. And she never laughed.

After a few moments, Acalith regained control over herself and shook her head breathlessly, amusement still shining in her eyes.  
"I would not let him hear you say that," she advised him seriously. "One of things I treasure about him is the fact is that he is neither controlled nor forgiving. And he has, I am afraid, no sense of humour at all."

'I had noticed,' Salir commented inwardly. He didn't say it out loud, however. The simple fact that he was having this conversation was more than enough proof that Lady Acalith was indeed "treasuring" Captain Gasur – something that was enough to make him feel definitely nauseous and more than a little furious.

"He takes his duties very seriously," he nodded his head in what he hoped was a noncommittal, neutral and thoroughly inoffensive way.

"Yes," Acalith agreed with a tiny nod of her head. "Maybe a little too seriously, though?"

Salir didn't say anything for a few moments, trying to figure out what to say without getting himself into a thoroughly unpleasant position. Disagreeing with their lady could have … unpleasant consequences, to say the least, and right now he was not completely sure what the dark haired woman wanted to hear. The seneschal finally decided that this was an opportunity too good to miss. He had been trying to casually mention this particular subject for the past two weeks, and he would not pass up this chance.

"You read my report, my lady," he finally said carefully, referring to the document in which he had all but insulted Gasur, his ancestors and possible descendants and had called for his immediate execution. Well, he amended after a moment, it hadn't been quite that bad. That was what he hoped, anyway, since he had been really angry when he had written it.

"Oh, indeed," Acalith inclined her head with another smile. How many were that now, Salir asked himself, two or three? This had to be some kind of record. "I have been meaning to speak with you about it for a while," she went on. "It appears that you and Captain Gasur are more alike than either of you would want to admit, don't you think so? What was that word you used? 'Overkill'?"

Salir allowed himself to wonder for a moment just how his lady knew that he had used this particular word during his conversation with Gasur. It did not really matter, he decided a second later. In Donrag, most walls did indeed have ears. More than one pair, too.  
"It seemed like an appropriate word at that time, my lady."

"Maybe," the young woman nodded thoughtfully, her gaze once again straying to the dark valley beneath them. "Yes, maybe it is an appropriate word."

For a few moments it was silent, her profile barely visible in what little light was filtering through the curtains which were covering the large, open doors behind them that were leading back into the house.

"It does not matter," Acalith finally said calmly, her eyes still fixed on the path leading into Donrag from the north that was almost completely hidden in the darkness. "What is done is done and cannot be changed. He might have been a little overenthusiastic, but he did not act against any direct orders, did he now?"

Salir all but gritted his teeth, already knowing in which direction this was going. He had known his lady for a long time, ever since she had arrived in Donrag as a very young woman, and knew exactly when his cause was lost. Lady Acalith did not truly disapprove of Gasur's behaviour and had never been planning to punish him in any way. The grey haired man sighed inwardly, thinking that it would have been too good to be true, too.

"No," he admitted reluctantly. It wasn't really important what he said either, for Lady Acalith was only remotely interested in his opinion anyway.

The dark haired woman turned her head sharply, her dark blue eyes looking almost black in the dim light as they fastened on the older man's face.  
"No," she repeated with emphasis, "he did not, Seneschal. I have no time whatsoever for these petty rivalries."

"My lady?" Salir inquired as politely and neutrally as he could.

"You know what I am talking about, Salir," Acalith said coldly, a threatening air beginning to surround her slender figure. "I do not think that I care to repeat myself. If I wish to see intrigue and secret machinations, I will send for a group of actors. Am I making myself completely, unmistakably, unequivocally clear?"

The grey haired man bowed his head and fought off a wave of sudden fear.  
"Yes, my lady."

"Good," his lady nodded her head firmly, an almost menacing gleam in her eyes. "I will have a similar conversation with Captain Gasur as soon as he returns. I expect you to sort this out, and if it appears that you haven't out of a reason I can neither imagine nor care about, I will be most displeased."

That little fact did little to actually comfort Salir. True, it was nice to hear that he was not the only one who had incurred his lady's wrath, and the fact that said other person was Gasur was something that almost made him smile (only almost, though), but that still didn't solve the underlying problem.

In fact, there were at least three problems. The most obvious was that nothing worse than a lecture would happen to Gasur. The other two were much more serious and more dangerous, too. One was that he had seriously displeased Lady Acalith, something that was never a good idea, and the other was that he had not only incensed her, he had underestimated her as well by thinking that his ... dicussion with Gasur would go unnoticed.

Displeasing her was unwise. Underestimating her, however, was just plain stupid.

"Do not think I am unaware of what goes on in my own house," Acalith's voice warned him, unconsciously mirroring his concerns. "There is too much at stake for my seneschal and one of my captains to be caught up in a fruitless power struggle. You would do well to remember that."

"Yes, my lady."

"Good," Acalith said curtly, her willingness to talk about this particular topic apparently evaporating as quickly as her patience. "I would hate to have to replace one or both of…"

She fell silent, her head cocked slightly to the side and her large eyes studying the path climbing up the hill beneath them. For a second or two, Salir was confused, but then he, too, saw the first hints of movement on the road, and another few moments later he was able to discern several figures on horseback that were slowly and stealthily moving into the town. Even from where he was standing Salir could see that there were a lot less riders visible than had left Donrag this morning.

"They have arrived, my lady," Salir said finally when it became apparent that the young woman wouldn't say anything.

"I have eyes and am quite capable of using them, Seneschal," his mistress informed him coldly. "I can see that they have arrived, and that their mission was successful."

Even despite the many riderless horses that became more easily visible by the second Salir found himself forced to agree. The group of riders was moving slowly and without any sigh of haste or anxiety, both signs that they had indeed successfully completed their assigned mission. The grey haired man sighed inwardly, realising that he had really hoped that Gasur would just spare him all the trouble and get himself killed.

"Meet them in the courtyard," Acalith went on, oblivious to her seneschal's rather bloodthirsty thoughts. "Escort the captains and our … guest to the great hall and see to it that the men know the penalty for talking about what has transpired today."

"Yes, my lady." Salir correctly assumed that this was the only answer that would satisfy the young woman and turned around to follow his lady's orders – orders that would have been better suited for a servant or a messenger, but that was completely beside the point.

The grey haired man pushed the curtains to the side with an angry swipe of his hand that went unnoticed by his mistress and entered the room, crossing it with a few long strides. It would not do to show that he was in any way displeased with the conversation he'd just had, Salir reasoned inwardly while he stepped out into the corridor. He had underestimated his lady once today; he would not do it again.

Mindful of that thought, the seneschal pushed his loathing and hatred to the side that welled up inside of him when he thought of Gasur and how much trouble that accursed soldier had already caused him since his arrival half a year ago.

Oh yes, he thought grimly, he would 'sort this out'. Once and for all, and in a way the dear captain would not enjoy at all.

**  
****  
**

Torel cursed under his breath, careful not to do it too loudly. His father, who was walking a few steps behind him, did not approve of cursing – most of the time, that was. There were times, of course, when simply nothing else could convey your feelings quite as well as a heartfelt oath, but the young man was rather sure that his father would not regard this as one of them.

The man grumbled and once again cursed himself for cutting off his hair in anticipation of the warm seasons. Vonar, his cousin, had volunteered to cut his longish hair with an enthusiasm that should have been a warning to him, really. Against his better judgement and mostly because he hadn't wanted to hurt his younger relative's feelings he had agreed, a decision he had regretted ever since he had glimpsed his reflection in the surface of the water in the horse trough. Not even his sister, who was exceptionally skilled in such things, had been able to repair much of the damage, and so he was right now looking more like a sheep that had been shorn with a very blunt instrument that had not been designed for that task in the first place.

The past few days had taught him many things, however, just like his mother had been telling him every evening since that questionable decision, namely humility, how to control his aggressive tendencies and the ability to dive for cover every time he crossed the way of one of Aberon's female inhabitants. Torel groaned softly to himself, his cheeks colouring once again when he remembered his last encounter with one of said inhabitants. The only thing that was keeping him from killing Vonar was that his hair had always grown quickly.

He hadn't realised that he had slowed his gait until he felt a hand on the small of his back, and a second later he was pushed gently but firmly forward.  
"Don't fall asleep!"

Torel bit back the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of his tongue. He wouldn't _have _to fall asleep if his father and Hurag hadn't convinced the council that they should follow the elves' trail and see where they had gone. He understood their motives, realising that it was important whether or not the elf lord's envoy and his entourage had travelled to Donrag as well, but that did not mean that he was pleased about the fact that the council had agreed with them.

_Of course _the council had agreed with them, he thought darkly. Hurag had been made councilman a few years ago, and he was easily one of the two or three most important ones already. What the older man suggested was usually done, too, or at least seriously considered. Unlike his father, however, Torel grumbled inwardly, Hurag had had the sense to stay at home instead of stumbling around in the dead of night, following what their guide thought to be the elven party's trail.

There was no trail, no trail at all, the young man grumbled, his mood dropping to new, foul levels. He had always heard that elves left no signs of their passing, and their horses seemed to have adopted that trait. It had taken their guide a long time to find what he was calling a trail, and Torel harboured more than just a few doubts about the truth of the man's statement.

He was so immersed in his dark musings that he didn't notice the fallen log that lay on the road, quite visible in the silver moonlight, and a second later his left shin made contact with the hard bark with an audible thud. Torel barely bit back another curse and had to stop himself from giving the log a vicious kick. That did it.

"Somebody," he began between gritted teeth, "Somebody please tell me why we can't light a torch! Or a lamp. Even a candle would do quite nicely."

"Because," a voice to his left announced smugly, "we would be seen, cousin."

Torel gritted his teeth even more firmly. The absolutely last person he wanted to see right now was Vonar.  
"And why would that be so horrible?" he asked, bending down to massage his hurting leg. "They aren't even here anymore, for the Gods' sake!"

"Are you so sure about that, my son?" his father asked seriously, having stopped next to him with the rest of their small troop. "Sure enough to bet all our lives on it?"

The curly haired youth bowed his head, embarrassed.  
"They would not hurt us," he still protested.

"They are elves," another man shrugged, pulling his cape a little more tightly around his body. "What kind of man can predict what they would and would not do?"

Torel opened his mouth to point out that there _were_ such men, namely the Rangers and even some others, but he caught his father's warning look and closed it again without saying a single word. He knew that he had a big mouth, just like his sister and little brother, and had learnt a long time ago that heeding his father's warnings was mostly the cleverest thing to do in such situations.

Vonar, too, noticed his cousin's rather obvious desire to tell the other man that he was talking nonsense and decided to intervene before Torel said something after all. He had no desire whatsoever to spend the remainder of the night out here in the cold and dark and argue like dim-witted children.  
"We should get a move on," he said hastily, wiping a strand of curly hair out of his hair that looked much like his cousin's. "It's getting … colder."

Torel's father gave his nephew a strange look.  
"Colder," he repeated matter-of-factly. "I see." He smiled slightly and inclined his head. "You are correct, though: We don't have the time to stand here, talking. We need to see if the trail leads all the way to Donrag."

The other men nodded their heads somewhat reluctantly and began to move again, even though Torel wasn't ready to give up so easily.  
"Only because Hurag says they went there doesn't mean that they did," he once again began to grumble softly. It wasn't that he didn't like the older, grey haired councilman, but if there was something he didn't want, it was stumbling around in the darkness searching for a bunch of elves who were most likely already on their way back home.

"No, it doesn't," his father agreed reasonably next to him, his face almost invisible in the darkness. "But the rest of the council happens to agree with him. And so do I."

Even in his foul mood, Torel was no idiot. He recognised that particular tone of voice, namely the Unless-you-want-to-spend-the-next-few-years-doing-inventories-you-will-be-quiet-tone of voice. There was only one thing he hated more than stumbling around in the darkness, and that was doing inventories.

"I understand, father."

"I hope so," Toran said, a hint of a warning clearly audible in his voice. "Because I've had it with your constant…"

The tall man fell silent, and it took Torel several moments to even ask himself why. For the first few seconds he simply thought that his father was trying to think of an adequately scathing expression, but then he realised that the rest of their troop had stopped as well. The young man came to a sudden stop as well, feeling as if he had run into an invisible wall.

In front of them, on the road right where the little copse of trees that grew next to the river almost reached the steep hills to their left, lay what he first thought to be fallen trees. Torel quickly realised that they were no logs and not even wood of any kind, but rather bodies. More bodies than he had ever seen in his relatively short life, too.

The moon chose this moment to break through the clouds, and a soft, silver light bathed the scene in a decidedly unearthly light. It was a suitable setting for this scene, too, a small part of Torel's mind whispered to the rest of him that was simply shocked into motionlessness. A small, wispy cloud drifted across the bright, luminous surface of the moon, plunging their surroundings into sudden darkness, and Torel closed his eyes for a second, almost hoping that the scene that spread out in front of his eyes would be different once he opened them again.

After a few quick heartbeats, the young man hesitantly opened his eyes again, and realised with a heavy heart that he wasn't that lucky. Nothing had changed, nothing at all.

There were nearly half a dozen dead bodies lying on the road and next to it, along with three equally dead horses. One of the dead men was half buried under his mount, and even from where he was standing Torel could see clearly that his neck was broken. The others were lying on the ground, their limbs twisted and already frozen in what he instinctively identified as the characteristic of a person that was long beyond help of any kind. Their weapons lay next to them, knives and swords strewn around the still bodies as well as broken bows and arrows.

A part of Torel, the small part that was still capable of reasonable thought, noticed that they couldn't have been dead much longer than a few hours. There was no sign that scavengers of any kind had been here already, no torn clothing or any other more distasteful evidence. He was still following that particular thought when the soft breeze lifted the long hair of one of the men, blowing it over his still, stone-like features, and Torel's thoughts ground to an almost audible halt when his eyes came to rest on the "man's" pointed ear.

After a brief, shocked mental silence, Torel blinked slowly. There were only two kinds of people he had ever seen who had pointed ears. One was the orcish race, and the other was...

"The elves," Vonar said next to him, his voice toneless and shocked. "Great Ones, what happened here?"

Next to his cousin, his father blinked slowly, grey-blond hair falling into his face as he shook his head to clear his head.

"Light torches," he said in a pressed, urgent tone of voice. He turned to the older member of their party, his eyes hard and cold in his pale face. "Search the surroundings. Make sure that whoever did this is no longer here. You two," he turned to his son and nephew, "see if one of them is still alive."

Neither Torel nor Vonar protested, even though they knew as well as Toran that none of the elves was still alive. Even a half-blind or half-dumb person needed to take only a look at them to see that they were dead, and had been for some time. Still they obeyed mutely, walking over to the motionless figures and checking them for signs of life, one by one.

Vonar was busy with the elf that had fallen with his horse when Torel knelt down to a dark haired elf who had been killed by a crude spear that had been driven through his back. He was just reaching for the elf's discarded sword when his father stepped next to him, a crackling torch in his hand.  
"Anything?"

The young man merely shook his head, not being able to find the words he would have to speak. He had seen dead people before, even dead people he had known and liked, like the guards in the warehouses, but this felt … different, somehow. It felt horribly wrong, in a way that Torel was at a loss to explain even to himself.

Torel's clammy fingers closed around the hilt of the beautifully crafted sword and he lifted it to his face, his eyes wandering slowly over the blood-encrusted blade.  
"Red blood."

Toran's eyes narrowed and he quickly looked over his shoulder to see if any of their companions was in hearing range.  
"What did you say?"

"Red blood, father," his son repeated hollowly. "Whoever ambushed them was human, unless the Little Folk have taken to waylaying travellers, which I seriously doubt."

"Nonsense," Toran shook his head quickly. "It was orcs. Who else would have left the weapons behind? Orcs do not touch anything that has been crafted by the Elves."

"Orcs?" Torel raised an unbelieving eyebrow. "There haven't been any sightings for nearly two years! The blood doesn't lie, father!"

His father looked at him, a steely, determined expression in his eyes that Torel had never before seen in his usually calm and composed father's eyes. The older man took a step forward and knelt down next to him, the torch in his hand illuminating the grisly scene.

"Listen to me, Torel," he began, reaching for the sword and taking it from his surprised son's hand. "Orcs killed them. They were ambushed and killed by orcs. Do you understand?"

"Father!" Torel whispered urgently, his eyes wide and confused. "This is not true!"

"Orcs. Killed. Them," Toran repeated firmly, slipping the blood-covered weapon into one of his bags. "For the love of the Gods, think, boy! Whom do you think the Lord of Rivendell will blame for this if he hears that humans were responsible?"

Torel might be only a little over twenty summers old, but he was no fool.  
"Oh dear."

"Exactly," his father nodded grimly, getting back to his feet and eyeing the fallen elf with a mixture of loathing and pity. "We will give them a decent burial. We will even send a messenger to the elf lord to inform him of their deaths, but what we will _not _do is tell him what really happened here. Do you understand?"

"But … but we didn't kill them!" Torel protested. "Did we? It was those idiots from Donrag, you can bet on that!"

"Of course we didn't!" the tall man snapped at his son. "And it might have been them, but that doesn't matter. Orcs killed them, and that's all there is." He looked at the older members of their party who were just stepping into the light of his torch. "Anything?"

"Nothing conclusive," one of them shook his head. "There is not one other body anywhere in sight, so the elves were either surprised so thoroughly that they didn't get the chance to fight back or the other party took their dead with them. There are lots of trails all over the place, but it seems that those who did this led their horses up the slope. Their trail loses itself among the rocks." He shrugged lightly. "A tracker or hunter might have better luck, but that is all I can tell you. There are a few other trails leading to the west, through the undergrowth, but mostly they disappear after a few yards. Might have been a few stray horses, but it's hard to tell on this kind of terrain."

"There are no horse trails," Toran shook his head firmly. "Orcs killed them. Orcs do not use horses; therefore there are no horse trails. Do you understand?"

The other men nodded without hesitation, but Torel's cousin looked at Toran, his eyes wide and confused.

"But…" Vonar began to protest, but quickly fell silent when he saw his uncle's glare. "Oh. Yes, uncle. Orcs killed them."

"Good boy," the tall man nodded curtly. "Get their weapons, or at least those that are still whole. We will need something to send to their lord. We'll bury them over there, next to the trees. Let's hurry, before the first wolf shows up."

The assembled men nodded and soon there was a neat pile of knifes and swords on the one side of the road and an incomparably less neater row of still, bloodied bodies on the other. Torel and Vonar were kneeling next to the last dead elf, their eyes wide and fixed on the arrow that was protruding from his back. It was the young one, Torel realised with a small stab of surprise. He had seen him only a few hours ago, when he and two other elves had asked him where they could find a kitten. He had been amused then, amused by their strange request and the smiles on their fair faces, but nothing of that feeling could be found inside of him now.

"Look at all the blood," his cousin mumbled next to him while he obviously tried to figure out how they could carry the dead elf over to the others without touching him overly much. "I never knew there was that much blood in someone's body."

Torel nodded mutely, his eyes straying from the large pool of coagulated blood to the dark haired elf's white, almost serene-looking face. He didn't answer his cousin – what was there to say? His gaze wandered over their surrounding to come to rest on his father and the other men who were busy digging five graves, their figures lit by their torches which they had stuck into the ground all around them. In the dancing light of the torches, the still bodies over at the other side of the road looked even more haunting and ghostly.

"Torel?" Vonar's voice ripped him out of his thoughts. Torel turned his head to look at his younger relative who looked back at him, anxiety written all over his face. Vonar swallowed quickly, looking even younger than usual. "We're all in trouble, aren't we?"

Torel once again looked at the young, dead elf in front of him and then at the other four bodies lying close to where his father and the others were digging the graves. After several moments of tense silence he nodded slowly, his face grave and serious.

"Yes, Vonar. We're all in trouble."

**  
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******TBC...**

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_móradan - 'Man of Darkness'. One of the men who fell under the dominion of Morgoth in the First Age, like Ulfang the Black who betrayed the Elves in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad; among their descendants are the Easterlings and the Dunlendings. Generally a rather unfriendly thing to say to a human •g•_

**********Ah yes, they're all in trouble. Just wait till Glorfindel and the rest of Rivendell hears about this... •evil grin• Okay, I won't insult you by promising to post in a week, but I really think I will be able to do so this time. Christmas is around the corner (O my God, I still need presents, lots of them! •horrified look•), so there isn't much I have to do for college. I will do my best to make sure that you see the Erestor-Acalith-confrontation (They don't really like each other) and a little surprise scene (Well, can you guess?) in a week. Really. Reviews are, as always, extremely helpful. •g•**

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**********Additional A/N:**

**********As I said in the A/N, I really don't have time to reply to all your lovely reviews today. I'm very, very sorry about that. I truly appreciate all your kind words, but I thought an update was more important. Feel free to send me an email and insult me to your heart's content. •g•**


	12. Face To Face

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Thanks for not being too cross with me for my suddenly rather ... erratic posting schedule. I really have no idea what's been going on lately. It somehow seems that there are a thousand things to do, and it nothing to do with Christmas... •shakes head cluelessly• Well, I have no idea. I can only promise that I'll try to update every Wednesday from now on - yeah, I know, I know, you've heard that one before. I know exactly how you feel - if there is one thing I hate, it is an author who's always promising to update on a certain day and then never does. Oh, and also cheese on toast and hypocrites, but that's another story. •g• Still, very annoying. •hangs head in shame•

About the whole Elvynd/Cuilthen/everybody else thing: I am sorry. Well, not really, to be honest. It was either that or have a seriously upset alter ego on my hands - and that on Christmas. What would YOU have done? •g• Besides, I have a little assignment for you: Go back to ... what was it? ... the last part of chapter 10 and count. Then go back to the last part of chapter 11 and count again. I'm not saying more because I don't want to spoil anything (and 'cause I'm evil, yes •g•), but I have to admit that I was rather surprised that nobody noticed.

Alright, here is the next part, but I have to warn you: The news of Acalith's little "surprise" reaches Rivendell only next chapter. Sorry about that, but I had to fit in our surprise scene. •g• We also see the little "confrontation" between said evil little wench and Erestor (yes, he's still in that rather interesting mood), and Gasur once again establishes himself as the Evil Guy du Jour. What can I say, he's good at being bad? •g•

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 12

He was not someone who was prone to fits of fury. The Valar were his witnesses, but he was not.

He was the epitome of calmness and composure, and more than once had he heard someone say that it was easier to get a dwarf to say a sentence that did not contain the words "rocks", "stone" or "mithril" than to make him actually lose his temper. He had stared down irate elf lords and ladies, wizards, kings and queen (both human and elven), and not once had he actually allowed his emotions to get the better of him, no matter how tempting the idea of strangling his various negotiating partners had been.

He was patient. He was longanimous. He kept a firm reign on his temper. He did not allow anger or hatred or any other kind of strong emotion to distract him from his tasks, and not in more years than he could remember had he caught himself seriously and wholeheartedly planning the bloody, gruesome and very painful death of another being.

Until now, that was.

Now, he had come up with the twenty-seventh scenario that would result in the untimely and unspeakably painful demise of his captors, which, considering that they hadn't travelled much longer than perhaps three or four hours, was quite an achievement. It would work, too, of that Erestor was firmly convinced – if he could somehow get out of these bindings that a man with the temperament and the appearance of a thoroughbred troll had wrapped around his wrists.

The dark haired elf scowled inwardly, once again testing his bonds. The man might look and act like a troll (and might even possess some troll blood for all he knew), but he obviously knew how to knot. The ropes hadn't moved even half an inch into any direction, and the more realistic part of Erestor – which was by far the larger part of him – was beginning to realise that he would not be able to undo them.

It was by no means a realisation he treasured.

The dark haired councillor forced himself to calm down and did his best to push the anger, hatred and pain to the side, only to find that he was unable to do so, something that surprised him quite a bit. No matter what he did and how much he attempted to regain full control of his emotions, the full meaning of what had happened came crashing down on him, destroying what little control he had managed to gather.

These … humans, if he could call them that, had killed his escort, every single one of them. Just like that. They had killed Captain Elvynd and his men with about as many qualms as if they had been nothing more than annoying insects. They had killed them, and he had done nothing, absolutely _nothing _to stop them.

Unlike Glorfindel, his lord and his sons he knew when he was beset by undeserved guilt, and so he did his best to squash these feelings. Just like his bid for control, however, this attempt failed completely. He knew that he was not responsible for the warriors' deaths, but he also knew that they had been killed because these people wanted to take him captive. And if that was the truth, then who else but he was to blame for the other elves' deaths? The warriors who had accompanied him were dead while he was still alive; that was all that mattered now.

Yes, he thought to himself darkly, his inner voice full of cynicism. He was still alive, but just how long would that be the case? Knowing his luck, and especially the luck they …_ he _had been having lately, not very long.

Erestor took his eyes off the back of the man who was riding in front of him and gave his surroundings a disinterested glance, deciding that calm aloofness was only partly successful at the moment. He could have spared himself the trouble, however, as he realised a moment later. Not even Glorfindel, who was one of the best warriors he had ever met (something which he would never admit to his friend, of course) would have been able to free himself.

The elf narrowed his eyes slightly at one of the men crowding around him and gave him his best I-am-a-millennia-old-elf-lord-and-will-smite-you-where-you-stand-you-imbecile-moron-look, the one that had been known to have some effect – however limited – even on Elrond. The result was as expected – the man in question found a sudden, overwhelming interest in his horse's shaggy mane – but it did little to alleviate the situation at all.

No, he thought to himself darkly, not even Glorfindel would escape these humans. Even Tulkas himself might have some trouble, and that meant quite a lot after all. Apart from the trivial fact that his hands were bound behind his back and he generally felt as if a mountain had fallen on top of him – and a sharp-edged mountain at that – there was the small matter of about a dozen men surrounding him, which posed a very serious problem to any escape plan he might have had. And what the humans lacked in manners or quick-wittedness, they made up for in vigilance and the rather obvious resolve not to let him out of their sight.

That wasn't what was truly bothering him about his particular situation, however. What _was _bothering him was that he had absolutely no idea what these humans wanted from him. All he knew was that they wanted him alive, which was precious little to work with.

Well, he amended after a moment, doing his utmost best to focus his still rather scattered thoughts on something productive, he did know some other things. He hadn't asked them any questions, of course, but he had still learnt a few things, mainly by merely looking at the humans and listening to what little they said to each other. He might be tied and trapped like an animal in a snare, but he was neither stupid nor slow on the uptake.

One thing was that these men were not from Aberon as he had first thought, but rather from Donrag, the neighbouring town for which they had been headed. They weren't wearing any kind of uniform or insignia, but unless there was another human town in the vicinity that could have a – however imaginary – grudge of any kind against the Elves, it was a rather safe guess that they were somehow involved in all this.

The second thing he knew was that he should do his best not to anger the pathetic, brown haired, pitiable excuse for a man that seemed to be in charge here. Now that he thought about it, however, he wasn't entirely certain whether or not … Gasur, yes, that was his name, whether _Gasur_ was indeed the commanding officer of these people. He did possess some power of perception, after all, and the tension between Gasur and the other, older man whose name he did not know was hard to miss.

The problem, however, was that all that did not help him at all. He was _still _stuck in the middle of a group of men who had murdered his escort and had taken him captive, he _still _had no idea just why they had done it and he was _still _being dragged into the direction of a town he had never even set foot in.

Erestor shook his head inwardly, the part of him that was paying close attention to his surroundings noticing that the path on which they had been travelling for the past few hours was beginning to slope upwards, leading up a rather steep hill that was hard to see in the darkness. To his substantial surprise, he realised that he didn't know these humans' motives, but that he didn't care in the slightest, either.

Under normal circumstances he liked to get to the bottom of things, and nothing annoyed him more than not fully understanding another's reasons and motivation, but today, after what had just happened, it simply did not matter. Whether the men had had a reason for their actions was irrelevant, whether they had acted on somebody's orders or not was irrelevant and what they were planning to do with him was – for now, at least – irrelevant as well. All that mattered was that he would kill them for what they had done, every single one of them.

He did not know when and he did not know how, but he would make sure that they paid for his companions' deaths. He was perfectly aware of the fact that the chances of him actually getting anywhere close to achieving that goal were at the moment not entirely in his favour, but that didn't matter either. He would wait, and as soon as these people gave him even the smallest chance, he would make them regret having ever laid hands on his warriors.

He knew that Captain Elvynd and the others had considered it their duty to protect him – a duty they had given their lives for, he thought with a pang of sadness and fury – but he had had a duty, too, and he had failed. It had been his job to make sure that something like this didn't happen, that they didn't walk into a trap, and he hadn't. If he had been more careful, if he had listened more carefully to what Elvynd had told him, he and the others might still be alive. He had been responsible for Glorfindel's warriors, just like they had been responsible for him.

He might not have been able to save their lives, but he would make sure that their deaths were avenged. He was old and experienced enough to know that to kill those who had murdered Captain Elvynd and his men would not change anything, not really, and that it would not bring them back to life, but at least justice would be served.

And besides, it would make him feel a whole lot better.

Erestor smiled inwardly at yet another highly amusing picture of his captors dying in agony when the men began to stir, sitting up straighter on their horses. Without even raising his head he knew that they had arrived at their destination, and after a suitable period of time that clearly conveyed his disinterest he slowly looked up.

First, he couldn't see much, elven eyes or not. The path on which they were travelling was dark, and it took even Erestor's keen eyes some moments to realise that the darkness that lay in front of them was not quite as absolute as he had thought. Small pinpricks of light could be seen here and there, and now that he knew what he was looking for he realised that he was looking at Donrag, just like he had thought.

Only a few hundred yards in front of them was a horizontal, dark, straight line that he almost immediately identified as a wall, or in this case the town wall. A small building somewhat to their right was probably a gatehouse of some kind, but it looked dark and deserted. Behind that line rose the hill on which the town was built, looking like a somewhat shapeless mass in the inky blackness of the night. It was largely dark, most of its inhabitants apparently already asleep, but there was some light in some of the houses.

Someone, Erestor thought darkly while one of the men pulled at his horse's bridle, urging it onwards, was most decidedly still awake. On top of the hill there was a lone house, looking big and lordly even from here. It was still brightly lit, and even a dumb person would have realised that it was most likely their destination. The dark haired elf felt how apprehension joined the hatred and sadness in his heart. He was not a superstitious elf, but he did not like the look of that house at all, no matter how inviting it might appear on first sight.

He was still contemplating this when they reached the deserted hut that really turned out to be a gatehouse of some sort. As soon as the men stopped in front of the wall, Erestor's mount was pulled to a stop as well, something which the horse commented with a snort and an attempt to bite the human who had grasped its bridle. The man avoided the gleaming teeth with a low curse that was quickly bitten off when a brown haired man moved his horse next to the elf's, his eyes gleaming in the near darkness.

"Well, _elf_, here we are," Gasur stated lazily, managing to make the word "elf" sound like something revolting and repulsive.

Instead of answering him, the dark haired advisor merely looked at him, his eyes narrowed in disgust, before he slowly and very deliberately averted his eyes and looked at a small stone lying on the road. Erestor knew that it was not a good idea to anger this man, that it was indeed a very, very bad idea, but he simply could not help himself.

The brown haired man's eyes lit up further and he moved his mount closer to the elf's, a strange expression on his face. While Erestor had counted on being struck for his behaviour or something like this, he was totally unprepared for the bright smile that spread on Gasur's face, making him look like a child who had just received the present it had most wished for.

"Oh, I'd been so hoping you'd be like this," the man stated softly, smiling at the elf who was still acting as if there was something fascinating to be found on the road. "Then again, you are an elf. You're _all _like this."

At this the dark haired elf raised his head again and gave him a look that was cold enough to make the Mirrormere appear warm and comfortable in comparison.  
"You know nothing of my people, human. Nothing at all."

"I know enough," Gasur hissed, all twisted merriment suddenly disappearing from his face. "Enough to know that you ought to be killed like rabid dogs, the whole lot of you!"

Erestor felt his temper flare up, no matter how much he told himself to remain silent. He was not Glorfindel or one of Elrond's sons, after all, and did not think overly much of the "Try-to-make-you-captor-as-mad-as-possible-approach", but right now he couldn't have cared less. The hatred, sadness and fury that were swirling inside of him demanded that he spoke, now, before something in him burst and he exploded.

"And who, pray tell, would accomplish such a noble feat?" he asked, allowing his emotions to show on his face. "You?"

"Why not, elf?" Gasur retorted, a hatred in his eyes that was equal to that on Erestor's face. "If I had the time, I would make sure every single one of you got what you deserved."

The men crowding around them frowned slightly, shooting fervent, uneasy looks at their captain. Never before had they seen so much of Captain Gasur's emotions on open display. It wasn't a sight any of them wanted to see again.

Erestor, however, was less than impressed. He merely raised an eyebrow, cocked his head slightly to the side and gave Gasur a look full of mocking incredulity.  
"That," he said slowly and clearly, "is by far the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

Apparently Gasur's patience went only so far. Even though Erestor saw it coming, there was no way he could have moved out of the way in time, bound like he was, and so the captain's fist connected with his cheek in a rather painful manner. The elf's head was whipped to the side by the force of the blow, but he quickly righted himself again, his eyes burning fiercely when he looked at the dark haired man.

He didn't say anything, though, and merely glared at the man, and, if he was perfectly honest with himself, only partly because he felt that it was beneath him to speak with Gasur. It had been a long time since someone had struck him deliberately or since he had been in a battle of any kind, and for a few moments a part of him was simply shocked. When the man had hit him earlier today he had been too furious to truly comprehend what was going on, but now he was calm enough to realise that Gasur did not only not care whether he hurt him or not – he relished the chance to do so.

He was mad, Erestor realised, his cheek stinging and his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the man in front of him. He was not only sick and cruel, he was insane, or well on his way of becoming so. There was a sparkle in his eyes that he had seen before, most of the time in the eyes of battle-crazed orcs, and, for the first time in several decades, Erestor felt a small tingle of fear rush through him. This man was insane, and he was only waiting for an opportunity to harm him – seriously, if somehow possible.

Before he could further dwell on that rather depressing subject, Gasur had moved his horse even closer to him, so close that the elf could almost have grasped the air of barely checked madness that hung thickly over him – if his hands had been free, that was.

"You are wasting my time, _elf_," he all but growled, his hands fiddling with his reigns as if they would have preferred to wrap themselves around the dark haired being's throat. "We are about to pass through the town. Keep your mouth shut and don't try to attract any attention, or you'll regret it. Understood?"

The only sign that indicated that the elf had heard what he'd said was the fact that his eyes narrowed even further so that the cold, contemptuous light that filled them was barely visible anymore. Renewed fury rushed through Gasur when he looked at the proud, arrogant elf in front of him, and he was about to hit him again when another horse pushed its way through the other men, its rider obviously having reached the end of his patience.

"We don't have time for this, Gasur," Reod said, annoyance plain to hear in his voice. He forced himself to look at the impassionate elf next to him, inwardly shivering when he looked at his narrowed, steely-grey eyes. He had never liked the Fair Folk overly much, and right now he was beginning to positively loathe them. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was feeling intimidated, and the elf managed to create that feeling with a single look. "You will either remain silent or be gagged. The choice is yours."

For a moment, it appeared as if Erestor wouldn't answer them, but then the dark haired elf inclined his head minutely when he came to the conclusion that calling out to someone in this town wouldn't change anything at all. The only possible explanation for this would be that the lord of these people wanted to keep his presence here a secret, or as much of a secret as possible. If he actually tried to attract any attention, he just might sign his own death warrant.

The older, brown haired man gave him a hard look and turned his horse around with a disgusted headshake, calling for some of his men to open the gate. Gasur, not to be left behind, glared hatefully at Erestor for a few moments before he followed his companion's example, riding off to join the other captain at the front of the column.

It took the men only a little while to open the gates, and within moments they were riding through the streets of Donrag, the hooves of the horses thudding dully on the unpaved roads. To Erestor's eyes the houses all looked the same, especially in the darkness that still hung thickly over the streets. He had never liked human towns and had not spent much time in them, and now he once again thought that one house looked just like the other: Rather small and made of grey, roughly hewn stones and dark wooden beams.

There was one thing even he noticed, however: Donrag was a rich town – or rather it had been, not so long ago. There were several rather spacious places and larger buildings that were richly decorated and could only be owned by wealthy townspeople, but even in the darkness Erestor could see that in this case the night might be an advantage. The darkness hid the signs of a slowly progressing decline: Buildings that were slowly falling into disrepair, with plaster falling off the walls and roofs caving in, and run-down, untended marketplaces and plazas.

Whatever it was that Donrag and Aberon were fighting about, it was clear that this town was on the losing side of the argument.

Not one inhabitant appeared on the streets at the sound of hooves beating onto the ground, and Erestor was beginning to think that they were either too fearful to leave their houses or were simply not interested in what was going on in the town after dark. He could understand them, of course – if he'd had anything to say about it, he wouldn't have been out here either.

He _didn't _have anything to say about it, however, and so he could only watch his surroundings as emotionlessly and forbiddingly as possible while they rode through the streets and finally reached a high wall that encircled the large house he had seen earlier. Within moments they had passed through the gates and rode into a roughly square courtyard that was, just like the large, spacious building, lit by many torches that were spread all over the place.

The dark haired advisor had just enough time to look at the armed men that were visible in the courtyard and realise that now at the very latest he was trapped completely when his horse was jerked to a stop. The man who had taken the animal's bridle nimbly avoided the annoyed horse's head that it tried to butt against the human's skull (apparently he had learnt from his last encounter with his horse, Erestor observed gleefully) and a moment later Erestor found himself being grasped by one of his bound arms and pulled off his mount's back.

Even though he had been prepared for something like this, it was only due to no small amount of luck and his inborn elven grace that he didn't fall flat on his face. Erestor straightened as best as he could before he was jerked upwards anyway when another man took hold of him, and before the elf had the chance to really see what was going on he was being pulled over to the stairs that were leading up to the main house and the two captains who were standing in front of the building with another, grey haired man.

He and his "escort" arrived just in time to see the older man give Gasur a smile that could only be termed condescendingly benevolent and nod at him in a mocking, friendly manner that fooled none of them even a second.  
"Welcome back, Captains. I see that you were successful?"

Gasur narrowed his eyes at the other man, not trusting his sudden friendliness.  
"So it would seem, Seneschal."

"Wonderful," Salir smiled even more broadly, giving Erestor only a cursory glance, something that, for some reason, made the elf even madder than the half-curious, half-hostile looks he was receiving from the rest of the men. "Your presence is required in the audience chamber. I will show you the way."

If one listened closely enough, it was possible to hear the softly crunching noise with which Gasur ground his teeth.  
"I know the way there."

"But of course you do," Salir smiled again. "And so does Captain Reod, as I well know. Still," he added and stepped back, gesturing at the open door behind him, "oblige me."

Before Gasur could say or do anything, Reod had nodded his head in acquiescence and beckoned his men to escort the prisoner inside, either because he was tiring of his companions and wanted to make sure that they didn't try to kill each other or because he had enough of standing around in the cold night. If Erestor hadn't been so furious and preoccupied with other, slightly more important things, he would have greatly enjoyed the sight of the grey haired man and Gasur simultaneously trying to move to the head of their small procession.

In the end, Salir managed to take point, even though Reod and the guards were inwardly beginning to suspect that Gasur would draw his sword in the foreseeable future and murder the seneschal where he stood. Reod shook his head inwardly, reaching out and pushing the elf none-too-gently forward when the dark haired being slowed down, most likely to try and memorise the way they were taking. He had no idea what was going on (didn't Salir hate Gasur as much as the brown haired soldier hated him?), but he really didn't have the energy – or the desire – to try and figure it out.

When he was starting to think that the seneschal and the captain would resort to pushing each other around next, they reached the doors leading to Lady Acalith's audience chamber. To Reod's substantial satisfaction, the two men became serious immediately. Salir might be as power-hungry as Gasur was mad, but neither of them was stupid enough to let their lady see how much they loathed each other. She knew, of that Reod was certain, but to actually act like spoiled children in front of her was not something she would appreciate. The guards standing left and right of the door opened it without having to be told, and a moment later they entered the large, spacious room.

The first thing Erestor noticed was that this room – just like the rest of the house – was not how he had expected it to be. The dark, threatening aura that surrounded the entire building was not due to the decorations or the architecture of the large house – there were no narrow corridors, rooms without windows or walls made of drab, dark stone. It was nothing like how Glorfindel, Elrond's sons and the son of Thranduil had described the castle of Girion, the madman who had almost killed all of them some months ago. The walls of this house were decorated with sculptures, carvings and colourful tapestries, the chandeliers and other metal objects were finely wrought and the rooms were brightly lit by large windows and there were quite a few balconies. Whoever had decorated this house, the elf decided, had possessed a rather stuffy, overbearing taste, but nothing screamed "Evil Overlord Living Here!" as he'd half expected.

If he was perfectly honest with himself, however, that hadn't really been the first thing he'd noticed, Erestor admitted to himself while he was being pulled to a stop in front of the archetypical, throne-like chair that every lord seemed to possess, no matter how powerless or insignificant he might be. The very first thing had been that the person sitting in said throne-like chair was slender, rather small and undeniably female.

Erestor blinked slowly, the only outer sign of his surprise. It was indeed a woman sitting in the over-sized chair, looking a lot like child trying out her father's favourite armchair. A young woman, too, he noticed, even his anger and hatred fading a little in face of this revelation. She looked about the same age as Aragorn, almost like a girl, but Erestor had seen too many powerful people to be deceived by such an appearance. The eyes never lied, and the eyes of this woman told him that she was older than Aragorn, even if not by much, and more cold-hearted, disillusioned and cynical than Elrond's human son could ever become.

It took him only a second to push back his surprise and confusion and lock them in a corner of his mind, his diplomatic experience reasserting itself. The fact that a woman was in charge here was surprising, yes, but of little importance. He didn't like harming females, but if this woman had ordered the death of his escort, he would gladly make an exception.

Said female was merely looking at the assembled men with a slightly raised eyebrow, her face absolutely emotionless. For several moments it was quiet, and soon the silence became so heavy and oppressive that it was almost possible to hear the glares that Salir and Gasur were shooting each other. Erestor, however, wasn't quite as selective. He was glaring at everyone in the room with equal fierceness.

Finally, when even Erestor was beginning to lose what little patience he had been able to salvage over the evening, the slender, dark haired woman opened her mouth to speak.  
"Lord Erestor, I presume."

The elf looked at her coldly. He hadn't confirmed that he was indeed who these humans thought him to be, and he wasn't planning on doing so now.  
"You may presume whatever you like."

The blow he had already been expecting knocked the air out of his lungs, and when he had gathered enough breath to straighten up a little he saw to his surprise that it had been the older captain who had hit him, not Gasur. What didn't surprise him, however, was the fact that the young woman sitting in the chair was totally unaffected both by the violent display before her and by Erestor's answer. The elf sighed inwardly. This was getting better by the second.

"Indeed I may, Master Elf," Acalith smiled thinly when the dark haired elf had been pulled upright by his guards. "That is why I am sitting in this chair and you are in bonds, try not to forget that." She waited for her barely veiled threat to sink in, but Erestor was not impressed. He'd heard far worse from Elrond when the half-elf was in a slightly snappish mood. "I know you are Lord Erestor, however, since my men reported to me that your late escort did their best to protect you, so let's not waste time playing such games. I know you've had a … long day, so I'll make this short," she finally went on, ignoring the elf's outraged intake of breath. "Why did your lord send you here and what are his plans?"

Erestor didn't answer, simply because he was too furious to articulate even a single word. He'd had a 'long day'? Had that … that woman really just said that?  
"Do you honestly expect me to answer these questions?" he finally asked, grinding his teeth firmly.

"Not really," the dark haired woman admitted, one of her hands thoughtfully tapping against her lips. It was a long hand, Erestor noted absentmindedly, with a large, bulky ring on one of the white fingers. "I can only advise you to co-operate, however. I am sure Captain Gasur would find a way to motivate you, but…" She trailed off with a cold smile. "Let's just say that that would most likely be rather … uncomfortable, not to mention messy."

Erestor stared at her, not able to believe what he had just heard. He had been attending countless negotiations over the years, but right now he couldn't remember the last time he had heard someone say something so completely and utterly arrogant and supercilious.

"You 'advise' me?" he finally asked, one eyebrow arched in a mixture of incredulity and disdain. "Who are you to advise me, woman? Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"I," Acalith answered evenly, gesturing Gasur to remain where he was when the man wanted to punish the insolent prisoner for his words, "am the lady of this town. You are alive by my sufferance, and I need only speak one word to make sure that you join your guards."

"If you are the lady of this town," Erestor said slowly, barely able to control his temper, "then you are as guilty as those who murdered my warriors, if not more so. I tell you now what I told them: You will die for what you had your men do, to that my Lord Elrond and the Valar themselves will see. This I swear to you by Eru Ilúvatar himself."

"Impressive," Acalith nodded slowly, sitting up a little straighter. "Or rather, it would be impressive if I believed in your god and his helpers, which I do not. And as for your lord's vengeance: He will not find you, Lord Erestor. He will think that you died with your men."

"He is not a fool," Erestor shook his head coldly. "He will think nothing of that sort."

"We will see about that, won't we?" the young woman retorted in an almost amiable tone of voice. "I will ask you only once more: What are you doing here?"

For a long moment, Erestor merely stared at her, but then, in total disregard of what the more reasonable part of him told him, he allowed his usually tightly controlled temper free reign.

"Indeed, we will see about that," he agreed, his eyes blazing with fury. "Are you truly so stupid and narrow-minded that you actually believe that my lord would be deceived by anything you could do? What are you planning to do, you and your pathetic helpers? Disguise it as an ambush, by orcs perhaps, or by bandits?"

Reod, who was standing next to him, shuddered inwardly. He didn't like the sight of this elf in a fury, not at all. He had never thought that such a slender being could exude such profound rage; not even his lady managed it to quite the same extent. As if Erestor had sensed the man's thoughts, he shot him a look full of burning hatred before he turned back to Acalith and Gasur and Salir, who were standing to the right of the chair, and continued.

"Whatever you are planning to do, let me tell you one thing: It will not work. Older and wiser beings than you have tried to deceive my lord, and all of them have failed. You can mock me all you want and disavow the truth of my words, but it will not change anything. Sooner or later, he will take revenge on you for what you have done, and you can be assured that none of you will escape his wrath."

He paused for a moment, a small part of him noticing with satisfaction that his words seemed to have the desired effect. Most of the men looked definitely ill at ease, if not outright scared.

"There is innocent blood on your hands, and nothing you can do now will save you from your fate. I do not know who you are, and I do not know what you are planning. I do not even care. Nothing will I do to aid you, neither by word nor by deed! Nothing will you learn from me, not about my lord's intentions and not about anything else you might desire to know! Cursed I name you, and cursed shall be your end."

For several moments, it was completely silent in the large room. After a few long heartbeats, Acalith leaned forward, her eyes boring into the elf's with quiet intensity. There was a strange sparkle in the dark blue depths that looked almost like amusement.  
"Is this your last word, Master Elf?"

"I have nothing more to say to you," Erestor said softly, fury still shining brightly in his narrowed eyes. "Not to you, and not to anyone else in this town."

"If nothing else, I appreciate a straight answer," the young woman told him calmly and motioned to the guards who were still grasping the elf's bound arms. "We will talk again soon. I will give you some time to think about your rash statements."

Erestor gave her a look that suggested she was missing something important, like a brain.  
"My mind is set. Time will not change it."

Acalith returned the look evenly and even gave him a friendly smile while the two guards began to drag the dark haired elf out of the door.  
"No, time most likely will not. But Captain Gasur might."

Erestor's derisive and thoroughly negative answer was swallowed by the noise of the shuffling feet of his guards who pushed him out of the door and into the direction of the cellars. Acalith leaned back into her high-backed, massive wooden chair, allowing her smile to widen for a second.

Oh yes, she thought, her eyes coming to rest on the brown haired captain's face and the barely controlled fury that was plainly visible there. Captain Gasur might indeed do just that.

**  
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**

He was floating on something soft, very high above the ground.

He didn't have the energy to do anything but stare at the darkness around him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity he wondered where he was. Or who he was, or why he was here, or how he had got here.

He pondered these questions for a while, but when he couldn't find any answers at all, he allowed them to fade to the back of his mind. It wasn't so much that he didn't have the energy to think – even though that was true as well – but rather the fact that, somehow, he knew that he didn't want to know. He couldn't remember what it was that he didn't want to remember, but every time his mind turned to the question of what had happened to make him feel like this, he shied away from that topic as if it was red-hot.

And while he might not know who and where he was, he did know that arguing with oneself was generally a very bad idea.

How long he was floating in the darkness, he did not know. There were a few times when he felt himself move closer to where he thought the ground was, but most of the time he managed to escape the sudden bout of gravity and return to where he had been before. There was a vague memory of one time when he hadn't been quite so successful, but that was about all. It was vague enough so that he couldn't really figure out what it was about, and he was perfectly happy to keep it that way.

After what could have been a year, or a decade, or a century, he was suddenly brought out of his rather comfortable, dream-like and, most importantly, pain-free state by a rhythmic motion that slowly began to invade his consciousness. For long minutes he couldn't really remember what it might be, and, if he was perfectly honest, he didn't really care either, but in the end the sheer monotonous repetitiveness was enough to make him seriously consider it.

A horse, he finally realised. The motion he had been sensing – now that he thought about it, he hadn't really known that it was possible to sense something while one was floating on top of a cloud or something similar – was a movement a horse was making when it slowly moved somewhere. At least he thought so. He wasn't really sure about anything at the moment.

The movement became more insistent and harder to ignore, and with it came the realisation that he was quickly leaving the safe place far above the real world behind. Suddenly, without any warning at all, he felt how a rather incredible wave of pain swept over him, rushing from his head through his body and into his toes within a few seconds. From one moment to the next he was unable to breathe, unable to feel, unable to think, and while a part of him was still wondering what had just happened he felt himself falling – but this time for real.

He hit the ground with a dull thud that sent pure, bright fire through his veins. The question of how it was possible for him to hit the ground when he floating somewhere high above him flittered briefly through his mind, but it quickly faded into unimportance when the agony in his body even intensified, completely paralysing him.

There had been a reason why he had been floating wherever-it-may-have-been, he thought fuzzily, feeling how his strength and indifference disintegrated with every fast, fluttery beat of his heart. _This _had been it. After what felt like an eternity he figured out that lying completely and utterly still and not even thinking about moving alleviated the pain a little bit – not much, but enough for him to slowly regain a tiny bit control over his own body.

He was still trying to return to the dark, dreamlike state he had been ripped out of so rudely when something soft and velvety touched his shoulder, renewing the agony raging in his body. A sudden, horrible sense of danger flooded through him, a memory of something terrible that had happened the last time he had been awake, and the adrenaline that accompanied this was just enough to give him the strength to open his eyes – or rather one of them. The other felt as if someone had glued it shut. It wouldn't have surprised him overly much if that had been the case.

For long, painful moments he didn't see anything, the colours and shadows that lay over his inert form blending together into a formless collage. His senses felt strangely muted and dulled, as if only bits and pieces of them were working, a suspicion he soon wholeheartedly accepted as the truth. Sometime during the past few days he had lost a few parts of himself – and rather important parts, too, like most of his wits and … well, most of the rest as well.

After a few more heartbeats his surroundings finally swam into focus, and if he hadn't been so confused or in so much pain, he might actually have laughed. He had neither the breath nor the energy to do anything but stare unblinkingly ahead, however, and so he noticed with a kind of puzzled acceptance that it was dark. Completely dark.

The thought that he might be blind fluttered lazily through his head, somehow failing to alarm him at all, before a large, oval, rather big-eyed face appeared in his field of vision. It whinnied softly, pushing against his shoulder with a big, soft, velvety nose, something that might have puzzled him a little bit if his memory hadn't chosen this second to come back to him.

His own voice, ordering his men to ride on. Cuilthen's white, motionless face. The shrill, pain-filled shrieks of mortally wounded horses. Aleneth, falling to the ground with a spear protruding from his back. Narucham's eyes that stared brokenly at the sky, his neck bent at an impossible angle. The gleaming blade of a sword that was being swung at his head and then nothing but blinding white pain…

Elvynd curled up even more tightly, ignoring the pain that rushed through him at even the smallest movement. He felt as if a giant fire had swept through mind, setting his every thought aflame. It hadn't happened. It had been nothing but a figment of his imagination. It hadn't happened, it hadn't happened, it hadn't…

No matter what he did and how much he tried to ignore the truth, however, he knew that it _had _happened. His men were dead. Cuilthen was dead, and Aleneth, and Narucham, and Taurwan, and… O the Valar. Lord Erestor. Lord Erestor was either dead as well or had been captured, and it was all his fault.

A sharp pain shot through his head, almost as intense as the agony in his body. Please, it could not be true! How could he have been so stupid? He should have known that someone was waiting for them, he should have known it was a trap! He should have done that and so many other things, but he hadn't, and now his men were dead. Every single one of them.

Despairing, hot tears streamed over his blood-covered face, leaving bright trails in their wake, and silent sobs shook the elf's body as he wept for his men and his own failure. No matter how much his body hurt – and it hurt a lot – it was nothing in comparison to the horrible, all-consuming pain that tore his soul and very being asunder. His men were dead. He had let them die, he had _caused _them to die. He had been their superior, their captain, and it had been his duty to protect them, his duty to make sure that they returned home alive. O the Valar, he thought despairingly, his head that was already pounding mercilessly beginning to swim with the combined physical and mental pain, what had he done?

For how long he lay like that, he did not know. He did not even notice that a large, warm shape settled down next to him and the large, velvety nose nuzzled him again. Elvynd was too lost in his pain to notice anything, and only when his tears had subsided and his body had stilled due to sheer exhaustion he opened the one eye he could use. The large face loomed into view again, causing a small stab of alarm to run through him, but after a heartbeat or two he realised that it was only his horse.

The animal gave him a look that looked amazingly like Isál when his friend was admonishing him for doing something stupid and butted his shoulder again, more gently this time. It didn't hurt, either because he was too numb to feel anything or because the horse had hit an uninjured part of his body, and Elvynd blinked slowly, trying to remember what had happened after … after the ambush. The last thing he could remember was watching that sword connect with his head, fully expecting to die, and the vague feeling of falling into nothing. Nothing he could recall would even remotely explain why he was lying on … a forest floor, he realised a moment later, with only his horse for company.

For a few long moments he couldn't remember anything, his mind shying away from the thoughts with tenacity that was rather impressive, especially since he didn't have the strength to do anything but lie motionlessly on the cold ground. In the end, disjointed, vague shreds of memories began to rise to the forefront of his mind, making absolutely no sense at all.

There was darkness, lots and lots of darkness, only every now and then interrupted by light spots that were very blurry. It took him a long time to bring them into any order at all, and when he had managed to do so he was not really sure about what they were supposed to mean. There was the vague image of something butting him into the shoulder, over and over again until he had surfaced somewhat from the darkness surrounding him. He couldn't remember much more, only the inborn, deeply ingrained instinct of having to get away, nothing more than the instincts of a trapped animal. There was also the very blurry memory of moving, no, of climbing onto something, onto something that had seemed to be miles out of his reach, a memory that was almost overshadowed by the incredible pain that had accompanied these moments.

If he'd had the strength, he would have shaken his head. The only explanation that made even the remotest bit of sense was that his horse had returned for him, once it … it had been over. It must have nudged him until he had regained his senses enough to somehow climb onto its back, even though he couldn't for the life of him imagine how he had done that. He couldn't even remember doing it, and he was very sure about the fact that he couldn't fend off a child at the moment. A Halfling child.

What his teachers had told him long ago had been correct, then, he thought almost bitterly, having more and more trouble keeping his thoughts together. When everything was at risk, your body was capable of doing the most amazing things.

The only problem was, Elvynd decided fuzzily, the pain in his head spiking to new levels, that nothing was at risk here, nor had it been when his horse had found him. He had lost everything that had been important to him, everything that mattered. His men were dead, and he had failed. He had failed them, he had failed Lord Erestor, and he had failed his lord, in a worse way than he could ever have imagined. And the very, _very _worst thing was that he hadn't even managed to die with his men, like he ought to have done.

Another low snort could be heard next to him and he felt a large, warm body press itself against his side. If he had looked up, he would have seen the unbelievably human look of concern in his horse's large, soulful eyes, but Elvynd did not look up. The world was already dimming again, and he fought the urge to return to the peaceful oblivion of the darkness he had so recently left only half-heartedly. He knew that he should stay awake, that he should try to figure out where he was, if he was in any danger or at least determine how badly he had been injured, but he possessed neither the strength nor the will to actually do anything.

The faces of his dead men appeared in his mind's eye once again, and the young captain closed his one open eye tightly against the image of Cuilthen, dying once again in front of his eyes. He was in too much pain and too exhausted to fight the new wave of pain that shot through him at the memory, and was rather surprised when he detected another emotion beside the pain and guilt that filled his heart: Anger. It had been his fault, yes, and if there was someone to blame for his men's death, it was he himself, but he had not actually killed Aleneth, Cuilthen and all the others. The strange men had done that, and he would make sure that they paid for what they had done. He didn't knew how, but he would get back to Rivendell and tell Lord Elrond what had happened here, and if that was the last thing he ever did.

And Lord Elrond would see to it that these humans regretted the day they had ever laid eyes on them, that was the only thing he knew with absolute certainty.

That thought served to comfort him for a few seconds, until another wave of pain swept through him, making him drift off once again. It took only a few moments for him to float away far enough for the pain in his body to diminish, but the pain in his heart did not. If he hadn't been so far away already, he would have cried out in anguish, but so he only drifted further away, his cold, weakened body relaxing against his horse's warm one.

'O Eru,' he once again thought despairingly before the darkness swallowed him whole, 'What have I done?'

**  
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**

Tibron sighed, cursing his brother for the hundredth time and wiping a wet, limp strand of hair out of his eyes for at least the two hundredth time. He didn't want to be here, his companions didn't want to be here and not even his horse wanted to be here, and they _certainly _didn't want to be here in the cold, wet rain.

The man grimaced while he pulled said horse to a stop, glaring at his surroundings in a manner that would certainly have cowed the trees and bushes if they had been aware of the fact that they were being glared at. If he was honest, it didn't even matter that it rained, even though it was certainly inconvenient, not to mention annoyingly wet. Even if the sun had been shining, he still wouldn't have wanted to be here, and that was both because of his mission and the people on whose goodwill they were all depending.

The tall man shook his head while he waited for his companions to catch up with him. He knew that the other men couldn't be much more than perhaps a minute behind him, but he could neither see nor hear them in this rain that could only be called a heavy downpour. Another thing he knew was that he wasn't making much sense, a realisation that was rather unsettling. A man ought to make sense at least to himself, after all.

Tibron sighed again and decided, not for the first time, that this was all his brother's fault. He loved Toran, he loved him dearly and wanted to help him, of course, but this … this was almost more than he was willing to do, even for his favourite brother. The man frowned slightly. Toran was, in fact, his only brother, but that was entirely beside the point.

It had been almost exactly six days since he and his wife had been woken in the night by Toran, his nephew Torel and his son who had accompanied his brother that evening. The two young ones had been looking pale and sickly, and as soon as his wife had escorted them into the kitchen to make them some hot tea, leaving him and his brother alone, he had found out why.

The blond man shook his head and stared forlornly at the thick ribbons of rain that fell relentlessly from the dark sky. The Gods knew that he didn't have any special fondness for the Elves and those who called themselves their friends, but he didn't really have anything against them either. Those he had met had been polite enough, after all, and what more could an innkeeper ask for?

Yet another thing that didn't matter, Tibron decided gloomily. He was no hardhearted man, and what had happened to the elven party that had passed through their town he wished on no one, not even on the folk from Donrag. Well, he amended after a moment, not on _most _of them, anyway. That witch they called their lady, however, was an entirely different story.

Soft hoofbeat could be heard behind him, and the blond man once again raised a hand to brush back a bit of sodden hair. He wasn't here only because of his brother, of course. This might be a favour for Toran, yes, and a favour of which he fully planned to remind his brother, surely, but he had also been ordered by the rest of the council to undertake this little mission.

Old Hurag had talked them into it, he was certain about it, and Tibron had his suspicions as to the reason for that. Everyone in Aberon knew that he was an even-tempered, equable and patient man and not prone to quickly taking offence at anything. It made him the perfect envoy, especially for such an occasion, and the fact that they were sending him, a member of the council no less, no matter how little influence he really had, would emphasise their sincerity.

And besides, Hurag had never liked him.

Toran would have been the more logical choice, of course, since he was senior to him by several years and was more skilled at negotiations anyway, but there were very important talks with some people from the south that demanded his attention, and so he had agreed to go. Tibron sighed again. He hated giving people bad news, he always had and he always would. He hadn't been faced with that responsibility often until now, and prayed that that wouldn't change, but there had been times when he'd had to tell families and friends that their loved ones were dead.

He was no expert on this, but he didn't think that it would be any easier with elven families and friends, not to mention elven families and friends who might hold you responsible for their loved ones' deaths and might kill you where you stood.

Before he could follow that rather depressing trail of thought any further, his companions joined him, looking at least as wet and uncomfortable as he felt. He didn't really know what they had done to Hurag or the rest of the council, but they must have done something, otherwise they wouldn't be here, a few hours away from Rivendell and preparing to tell the Lord of that place that his men had been killed by a horde of marauding orcs.

"Well," he began, vainly trying to infuse his voice with some of his usual cheer, "Who wants to go first?"

The other men looked at him as if he had just offered them to strip them naked and hang them upside down from a tree right over a pack of starving wargs, before they decided that he had been joking and ignored his question. They all began to talk at once, some of them to point out that he was in fact the leader of this whole expedition, some to say that they didn't trust the Elves and would never, ever set foot into their cursed valley (something which some of them had been telling him for quite some time), and another two simply to tell them how wet, cold and generally miserable they felt.

In the beginning, Tibron tried to answer them, but he quickly realised that they weren't even really interested in what he had to say. His companions weren't thrilled to be here either, and all they had been doing for the entire journey had been complaining about having to go in the first place.

And no matter how much he might agree with them on the cold-and-wet-and-miserable-part, he thought that someone had to tell the Lord of Rivendell what had happened. For at least the tenth time since they had left Aberon Tibron found himself opening one of his saddlebags, and, completely ignored by his loudly complaining companions, he closed his fingers around the hilt of one of the swords that had been crammed into it.

He pulled it out slightly, just so much that the sparse light caught on the metal of the scabbard, and he once again felt the pang of sadness run through him that he couldn't truly explain. This sword was obviously old, older than he and maybe even older than his town, and even he could see that it was beautiful. It looked just like he had always thought an elven sword ought to look like when he had been a boy, and having to deliver it to its dead owner's lord or, even worse, his family was something that filled him with an inexplicable, deep sorrow.

Tibron gave the sheathed weapon a last glance before he pushed it back into the leather saddle bag, trying to push back the bad, uneasy feeling that was once again creeping up on him. He was most likely only nervous, he tried to reassure himself. He had never been to Rivendell and didn't even know the exact way there (he and his companions were more or less counting on the elven sentinels' skills and that they would find them and guide them to Lord Elrond's residence once they set foot into their domain), and even if the circumstances had been less dire and serious he would have been nervous.

Deep down, however, he knew that this was not it, or at least not all of it. Ever since his brother had burst into his sleeping chamber that night and had told him what had happened to the elf lord and his escort, he had been bothered by something, like a tiny, inward itch that would simply not go away. The elves were dead, that much was sure, and he had no reason to doubt his brother's word or that of his own son and the other men who had buried the dead beings themselves, but there was something slightly … off, something he couldn't put his finger on.

Something didn't really fit, in a way that he couldn't really explain even to himself. And no matter how much he loved Toran, he was not blind to his faults. His older brother had always been prone to protecting him and all the others he cared about from things he perceived to be possible dangers. Toran wouldn't have lied to him, at least not openly, but he might not have told him the whole truth.

"Tibron?" the voice of one of his companions drew him out of his thoughts. The man looked at him, dark stubble on his face and weariness and a bit of fear in his eyes. "Are we going on?"

The blond man blinked and nodded, quickly closing the saddle bag again and feeling almost self-conscious at having been caught staring at the dead elves' weapons.  
"Yes," he nodded again. "We are."

His companions greeted this statement with glum nods and began to steer their horses down the steep path that would take them into elven territory where they would – hopefully – be stopped by a patrol that would guide them to Rivendell. Tibron waited for the other men to precede him before he followed them, feeling even wetter and more miserable than before if that was even possible.

The blond man shook his head and directed his thoughts to the matter at hand, and while he was guiding his horse down the road, he tried to come up with a way to explain to the Lord of Rivendell just what had happened to his envoy and his escort.

If there was a way that would not result in him being torn limb from limb by said elf lord, he did not think of it that evening.

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TBC...

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**Well, are you happy now? I didn't kill him after all! It's more or less because I still need him, but he doesn't need to know that. •g• Since I don't have to go to any classes next week, the possibility that I will post in a week is rather good, for once. So, the next chapter should be here in seven days, including a very bored Aragorn, an impossibly cheery Elrohir, a rather annoyed Legolas and, in the end, a seriously displeased Isál. In short: Fun all around! •g• As always, reviews are cherished, loved and treated as Christmas presents. •g• Really.**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Ventinari -** LOL, yes, Noldor swearing oaths is generally not a good thing. These guys should really start running right about now... •g• I'm sorry I didn't make that one clearer, btw. They didn't kill Erestor inadvertendly because a. I didn't want them to (not a very good reason, I know), b. because they simply had to watch them and see which was the one who got shoved to the ground when the fighting started, and c. because of something I can't really tell you now. Sorry about that, but it would spoil a bit of the plot. •g• So you met Alan Lee? I hate you. I mean it. I really, really do. •g•  
**HarryEstel -** Yeah, I guess that's true. The only problem is that I forget about projects all the time. It can be ... messy. And unpleasant. •g• And it usually is accompanied by bad grades, or worse. •g• Well, it's all my fault, so I shouldn't be complaining, I guess. Thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**KLMeri -** •g• Bouncing in your set, eh? Well, that's something I would like to see... •g• I know that it's evil of me not to notify Rivendell's inhabitants more quickly, but something always seems to come up. Like that little scene I was really not planning on putting there, but that just ... well, appeared. •frowns• Don't mind me, I'm not really making much sense right now. Thanks a lot for your kind words. Oh, and don't bite your nails. •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing -** I know, I know. They STILL don't know what's happening. The thing is that you need about five days to get to Rivendell, so all the other scenes have to come first. Timelines can be soooo annoying, I know. •g• And yes, you're bloodthirsty. Answering that question would be telling, however, so I can't say anything right now. Let's just say Gasur is going to have a little fun. He's evil, too, btw. •g•  
**Red Tigress -** It's been really strange lately, hasn't it? Suddenly there are lots and lots of things to do... •shakes head• I don't get it either. I really don't. There isn't really much action in this chapter yet, I'm sorry, most of it is in the next one. Promise. •g•  
**TrustingFriendship -** Hmm, so you want Glorfindel to kill Gasur? •pulls out a long list• I'm afraid I can't promise you anything. There seem to be a few other people who aren't too fond of him either, or rather some people who won't be too fond of him in the near future. I know that I'm not making much sense right about now, but trust me on that. •g• Someone will kill him in the end, that much I can tell you. Yes, I know, I'm evil. •g•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure - I** guess you could say that. Glorfindel won't be overly happy when he heard what's happened, I agree. •g• Erestor is indeed more "logical" than Glorfindel, lucky him. Glorfindel is sometimes rather ... impulsive, if that is the right word. •frowns• Are elf lords impulsive? Most likely not... •g•  
**Elvingirl3737 -** Yeah, well, what can I say? Erestor is a Noldo. They really like that whole gloom-and-doom-eternal-damnation-kind-of-oath. It's part of their heritage, I think. •g• Thanks again for all your reviews!  
**Crystal-Rose15 -** That's wonderful! Congratulations! I'm sure you'll have lots of fun - it's so unfair! NZ in the spring/summer! I hate you, I really, really do. I'm applying for an exchange program myself, but I won't know where I've got a place (if I got one in the first place) until mid-January. Poor me. •g• So you like Acalith, huh? I have to admit that that wasn't really my intention. She's evil, she's not to be liked. Sorry about that. •g• The twins aren't in this chapter, but Elrohir is in the next. I promise. •g•  
**Tineryn -** LOL, yes, a "real week". I'm very proud of myself, too. •g• Glorfindel will indeed worry about Erestor, but not in this chapter, sorry. I think that's in chapter ... let me think ... 14? Something like that. 13 or 14, I'm not really sure right now. Jeez, I'm really getting old... •g•  
**Barbara Kennedy -** Is this soon? I think it is. A week really qualifies as soon, doesn't it? Well, maybe not as soon per se, but soon in comparison to my other updates. What? I'm not making much sense? Oh, sorry about that. It happens all the time. •g• Thank you very much for all your reviews!  
**Enigma Jade -** Well, I'm not saying "I never said he was dead, did I?", but I really could. I never did say he was dead, though. •g• You all assumed he was. That's a difference. And yes, I am evil. •g• Sorry about that.  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel - **You're right, of course. There ALWAYS is an evil, sadistic man somewhere in my stories. I am trying to put an evil, sadistic orc into my next story though, really. I'm not promising anything, though. •g• Oh, btw, I'd love to be able to raise only one eyebrow, too. I can't do it either, but I'm practising. •g• You're right, of course. You simply don't hit elf lords. It's not a nice thing to do, not to mention rather unhealthy. Well, it's Gasur's funeral, isn't it? And I never said Elvynd was dead. You all thought he was and I didn't correct you, but I never actually said it. Yes, that was rather sadistic. •g•  
**Marbienl -** •gloomily• I haven't seen it yet. It's not fair. Still, don't tell me anything about it. Oh, but please tell me that the movie got better. It just has to have got better. •hopes fervently• I hate to admit this, but Isál and Elvynd don't actually mean anything. Isál is too short, and Elvynd simply doensn't make sense. These two are out of AEFAE, when I didn't know enough Sindarin to actually come up with 'real' elvish names. •lowers head in shame• Sorry about that. And I know that Cuilthen was young and innocent, but since when do only the old, mean soldiers die, huh? Most of the times, it is the young and innocent recruits because they don't really know what they're doing. It's sad, but true. Oh, and I really need to tell you something. You're really, really strange. Why would he bring back the kitten? •shakes head• All that H/C must have been too much...  
**Radbooks -** No, I actually think there aren't. Nice humans anywhere on Arda, I mean. Well, there might be a few, but most are just ... well, human. Most human beings aren't exceedingly nice, are they? Oh, and Gasur and the other are definitely insane, yes. Well, Gasur is, his men are just stupid. Oh, and I never said that all of them would ride to the rescue, did I? They do that all the time, and since I didn't want it to be boring I thought of something else. Something slightly more ... interesting. Or evil. Take your pick. •g•  
**Arrina -** Well, that's what you usually do with dead people, isn't it? Bury them, I mean? You got Carcharoth, huh? I've always wanted to meet him - I never liked Beren overly much, don't ask me why. •shrugs• I'm weird. But so are you, with the kind of pets you seem to prefer... •shakes head• We're all mad here, I think that's it. Oh, and I hope this was soon enough. I wouldn't want to have an evil wolf AND a vampire after my blood. •g•  
**Elitenschwein -** Ich denke gerne, dass es so ist. Es ist doch am wichtigsten, dass ich ueberhaupt was poste, oder? Schon wieder so ein germanisiertes Wort, "posten"... •schuettelt Kopf• Geht ja wirklich schneller, als man denkt. •g• Ich hab' uebrigens keine Ahnung, warum du Gasur nicht magst. Er ist doch so ein suesser kleiner Knuddel, oder? •g• Das mit Erasmus ist jetzt alles am Laufen; die Ergebnisse krieg' ich erst Mitte Januar. Spanien wird wahrscheinlich nix, da ich gerade erst angefangen habe, die Sprache zu lernen (kommt davon, wenn man Griechisch und Latein hat), aber vielleicht England oder Holland. Mal sehen, was dabei 'rauskommt. Ich weiss, welchen Film du meinst, habe ihn aber nicht gesehen. Habe allerdings nur gutes gehoert, also werde ich ihn wahrscheinlich mal angucken, wenn ich Zeit habe. Also im Winter 2007. •g• Danke fuer all deine netten, langen Reviews! •g•  
**Tychen -** •evil grin• Great to hear that you liked the names. I thought them to be rather funny, too, but I'm weird. •g• Gasur's days are definitely numbered, they actually were from the very beginning. Poor boy. And I never said he was dead. You assumed he was, that's a difference. Yes, I know: I'm weird AND evil. •g•  
**Sadie Elfgirl -** •indignantly• It wasn't THAT much angst, really! Only a tiny bit in chapter 9 .... and quite a bit in chapter 10 ... okay, AND a bit in chapter 11, but that was about it! I really don't know what your problem is... •evil grin• ROTFL, you have a rabid vampire gerbil? That really sound ... interesting. And scary. And dangerous. •pauses• I want one. No, make that three. My sister and Jack would like them, too. •g• The ideal Christmas present!  
**Golden Elf -** Ha, a new one! •g• It's great to 'see' a 'new face'. I'm glad that you like my strange little story - well, okay, my very strange little story. Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!

**Sorry for keeping the answers relatively short. There is a pizza with my name on it, and if I don't hurry up, I won't get even a single slice! Thanks for all your reviews! •runs off•**


	13. Messages

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

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A/N: **

Well, I'm glad you approve. I can honestly not believe you actually thought I had killed Elvynd! Do you think I am some kind of evil, sadistic monster? •readers shuffle their feet and mutter something• Okay, fine, I get it. That is the last thing I ask you what you think of me, honestly... •g•

**I have to agree, though. Erestor is not very happy at the moment, and I really can't blame him. I have no idea why most of you think that he and Gasur will have a few ... uhm, 'conversations' later on (•quickly hides next few chapters•), however. Whatever made you think I would do such a horrible and painful thing to the dear Erestor? On second thought, don't answer that. •g•**

**Okay, I have lots of things to do (Ahhhh! I HATE Christmas!), and I'm sure you have lots of things to do, too. Therefore I will stop blabbering after only two little paragraphs, which is definitely a first. •g• Again, don't say anything now.**

**I wish you all a very merry Christmas - or, in case you don't celebrate Christmas, simply Happy Holidays - and will see you again in a week, or perhaps even a day earlier. I don't know yet what I'll be doing over New Year - perhaps I'll visit some friends - so I might have to update early. You would all be devastated, I know. •g•**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 13

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

And ... drip.

Aragorn growled inwardly – a rather unreasonable reaction to something as simple as rain, but he simply couldn't watch it anymore. It had been raining ever since he had woken up today (and, as trustworthy sources had assured him, even before that), and he was beginning to get seriously annoyed with this kind of weather.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he was going out of his mind with boredom. It was raining, it was cold, it was already early evening, and even though most people he knew and especially his family and friends would be quite surprised to hear it, he wasn't a complete idiot. He had absolutely no desire to leave his father's house to be caught in this kind of weather that would give him at least a cold, if not pneumonia or something equally unpleasant.

The young man leaned back into his armchair which he had dragged in front of his balcony doors to watch the rain – a testament to his boredom. Watching something as monotonous as rain was a last resort, but there was nothing else to do. There really wasn't anything to do, and he had thought about doing every single thing he knew to be even remotely entertaining.

Aragorn glared at the relentlessly falling rain and rested the back of his head against the carved back of his chair. Since more than a week had passed now since their little … mishap on that ridge, the healers were mainly leaving him alone now. Even Gaerîn seemed curiously uninterested in his recovery, which, of course, could be connected to the fact that she was spending quite a bit of time "taking walks in the gardens". Neither she nor Isál would confirm it, but he was sure that the fact that both of them were curiously absent at the same times was more than just a coincidence.

Thinking about Isál led him to reckless behaviour (who in his right mind would throw himself off a tree, after all?), and from there he quickly arrived at the subject of his brothers and that wood-elf that insisted on spending an insufferably long amount of time under Elrond's roof.

The dark haired ranger smiled, not truly angry with his friend. Legolas had left him earlier today, with the rather paltry excuse that he needed to find a few spare bowstrings, sharpen his knives, fletch his arrows, mend his clothes, paint the guestroom, read all the volumes of an incredibly long-winded and boring book named "The History of Arda" and generally do everything in his power to assure that he wouldn't have to set foot into his room again in this century. He actually understood the blond elf's sudden urge to leave his company – now that he thought about it, he might have been a tiny bit ill-humoured today. Only a tiny bit of course, so Legolas was clearly overdoing it.

Still, the fact remained: Legolas was hiding somewhere, and he knew better than to try and find him. After the half-annoyed, half-murderous looks the elf had been giving him yesterday (and the day before), the best he could hope for if he actually did manage to locate the elven prince would be an arrow that would – accidentally, of course – pin him to a wall.

So, spending time with Legolas was clearly out of question. Glorfindel had left around noon with a group of warriors to inspect the ridge where they had nearly broken their necks a few days ago, so that ruled him out, too. The official reason for this little expedition was that he wanted to make sure that their little adventure hadn't caused the hillside to become even more unstable than it already was and that the ridge wouldn't slide all the way down into the valley any time soon, but Aragorn wasn't sure if he believed that. Glorfindel probably only wanted to take a look at the place of their misfortune so that he would be able to tease them more effectively in the future, something that was very likely, considering the fact that the golden haired elf lord had only started laughing hysterically when Aragorn had cautiously suggested that he could accompany him.

That only left the twins, or rather Elrohir, since Elladan was still confined to his bed. The older twin's hip had been damaged worse than even their father had thought, and so he was still not really allowed to get up, let alone walk anywhere. That Elladan was not complaining was a sign that he understood how dire the situation really was – not even the Firstborn were immune to crippling injuries. Elrond was not completely sure whether the twin's hipbone had a hairline fracture or was truly broken, and so he was taking no risks.

Elrohir had spent a few days gloating over his incapacitated brother, telling him that it served him right that he had to spend at least another week in bed, but that seemed to have become boring after a while, especially after Elladan had nearly killed him by throwing a very thick, very heavy book at him, narrowly missing his head. As far as deadly missiles went, this wasn't the most lethal one, but the message had been clear enough.

Aragorn had just decided against getting up and looking for his elven brother (the thought of having to put up with Elrohir's behaviour that had been rather bouncy lately made his head ache profoundly) when the door at his back was thrown open without prior notice or warning. The wooden door hit the door with enough force so that it bounced back a little, and Aragorn closed his eyes for a second when he saw aforementioned elf stride into his room, exuding something that could only be called gleeful amusement.

The young ranger shook his head inwardly. Tormenting Elladan could be fun, surely, and he was certain that Elrohir had been waiting for such an opportunity for several years, if not _yéni_, but this was carrying the whole thing to excess, wasn't it?

Elrohir ignored the decidedly annoyed look on his younger brother's face as he walked up to him, swivelled his chair around so that Aragorn was facing him and sat down on the man's bed, still grinning in an expectant manner.

"You've heard the news?"

Aragorn sighed openly and shook his head. Patience, he reminded himself, patience.  
"No, depress me further."

If Elrohir even noticed his brother's bleak tone of voice, he ignored it rather successfully.  
"You won't believe what just happened, Estel!"

"No," Aragorn agreed, sensing an opportunity to escape this conversation after all. "You're probably right, I won't. Don't bother telling me."

"I wish I had a painter at hand to immortalise this particular sight," the elven twin went on, unfazed by Aragorn's lack of enthusiasm. "I would never have believed that it would happen to _him_ of all people!"

"Elrohir," Aragorn began in a low, dangerous tone of voice, "I have been doing nothing but stare at the rain for several hours. My wrist itches because I am not allowed to remove the bandages, Legolas has abandoned me and will most likely 'accidentally' kill me if I should try to find him, and Elladan has borrowed my copy of the 'Lay of Leithian'. If you have something to say, I would advise you to say it before I snap and re-enact the battle between Glaurung and Túrin Turambar." He leaned forward slightly and gave his elven brother his best I-am-the-chieftain-of-hundreds-of-loyal-and-battle-hardened-rangers-you-don't-want-to-mess-with-me-look. "And let me tell you one thing, brother: I won't be the dragon."

"Dragon?" Elrohir frowned, having apparently only heard one part of Aragorn's threat. "What dragon? Whatever are you talking about, _muindor_? Are you ill?"

Aragorn ground his teeth and slowly counted to ten. In Dwarvish, that took longer.  
"No, Elrohir," he finally answered when he had regained some control over himself. "I am not ill. What happened to whom?"

"Oh yes. That," Elrohir nodded enthusiastically, leaving Aragorn wondering how a mature elf of over 2800 years could act so … well, immature sometimes. "Glorfindel with his indomitable I-am-the-slayer-of-balrogs-I-am-always-right-attitude has stumbled, rolled down half a mountain and into a fissure and broken one of his ankles and dislocated the other when trying to land gracefully on his feet."

"What?" Aragorn would nearly have jumped to his feet. "Glorfindel? What??"

"Calm down, Estel," Elrohir advised his younger brother. "He'll be fine. Nothing has taken serious harm apart from his pride and his ego, which, if I might say so, was in dire need of deflation anyway."

"But … how…?" Aragorn stammered, unable to wrap his mind around the image of the ever-graceful elf lord actually stumbling and _falling_. "What did _ada _say to all this?"

"Well," Elrohir began, "First he told Glorfindel how immature and careless he was while he was patching him up. Then he threatened him with drugs and Gaerîn should he try to get out of bed anytime soon, and then he left the healing chambers, locked himself in his study and started howling with laughter."

Aragorn was still too shocked to say anything coherent. After a few moments he shook his head and tried to separate the whole matter into different, more easily digestible parts. Glorfindel standing on a hillside. Aragorn nodded after a moment. Yes, he could imagine that. Glorfindel with two broken and/or dislocated ankles. That was a little harder to picture, but yes, he could see that, too. Finally he tried to image Glorfindel stumbling and rolling down a rocky slope. His imagination struggled valiantly with that task and finally gave up.

"Glorfindel?" he finally asked faintly. "Stumbling and rolling down a hill?"

"How the mighty have fallen," Elrohir proclaimed solemnly. "That guard in Lórien owes me half a year's wages. He bet me that Glorfindel never did anything graceless."

Aragorn merely nodded automatically, a slow smile beginning to spread over his face. Now that he thought about it, the whole thing actually _was _quite funny. It wasn't the fact that Glorfindel had been hurt, of course, and Aragorn really regretted that, but … Glorfindel stumbling and falling! It was just too amusing, especially considering Glorfindel's attitude that sometimes bordered on downright arrogant. He was a fierce and experienced warrior, he was wise, he was beautiful, he was graceful, he was kind and could do about everything, including singing flawlessly, and sometimes he liked to remind everyone of these facts, too.

"Glorfindel never stumbles," he still stated after a moment, shaking his head softly. "Whatever has got into him?"

"An overlarge ego coupled with a very steep hillside," Elrohir informed him seriously. "We nearly broke our necks, so he would injure his ankles. Now that I think about it, though, it is rather unfair."

"I still can't believe it," Aragorn shook his head. "I really can't. I am still waiting for Glorfindel to jump out from behind the door, waving a very large, very sharp, very lethal sword and yelling 'Got you!'."

"Do you honestly think I would play such a crude, distasteful, _mean _joke? On you, my favourite human brother?"

"Yes," the man nodded without hesitation. "Of course you would, and so would Elladan. And I'm your _only_ human brother."

"Ah yes. I must have forgotten."

"So it would seem," Aragorn grinned, his mood greatly improved. "But I'm serious. I really can't believe it."

"Neither can I," another voice agreed with him. "I have no idea how he did it. I never thought he would actually bribe his own father! And bribed him he must have, because otherwise there is absolutely no explanation for this."

Elrohir and Aragorn turned around slowly and gave the blond wood-elf who was standing in front of them a questioning look. Legolas seemed to be torn between confusion and something that looked almost like anticipation, and was waving a sheet of paper like some sort of trophy.

"Legolas," Elrohir finally began carefully, wondering for a moment if Aragorn's rather annoyingly bad mood had somehow affected the elven prince as well, "I have to admit that I am not completely sure about it, but I believe that Glorfindel's father is either in the Blessed Realm or currently residing in Mandos' Halls. And even if he were not, I seriously doubt that Glorfindel would bribe him."

"Eh?" the rather ineloquent sound left the blond elf's lips before he could stop it. "Glorfindel? What are you talking about?"

"What are _you _talking about?" Aragorn countered. "_We _were talking about the fact that Glorfindel managed to dislocate and break both his ankles."

The look of open-mouthed surprise on Legolas' face was highly amusing and, in this intensity, extremely hard to come by.  
"Glorfindel?" he asked incredulously. "Broke and dislocated his ankles? The "I-am-the-slayer-of-balrogs"-Glorfindel? _Glorfindel_?"

"Here we go again," Elrohir sighed softly and let himself flop down onto Aragorn's bed.

"I don't think there's another elf of that name living here," Aragorn answered his elven friend patiently. "So yes, _the _Glorfindel."

"Oh." Legolas didn't seem to be nearly as shocked as Aragorn had been, but he hadn't grown up thinking the golden haired elf was something very close to a Vala. Well, at least a Maia. "I see," Legolas went on. "Should we go and visit him?"

"If you want to have your heart ripped out and stuffed down your throat, definitely," Elrohir's wry voice could be heard from the bed. "A sane person, however, would wait until he has got over what he certainly perceives as 'horrible humiliation'. Sometime next week, maybe."

"That sounds good," Legolas nodded and walked over to Elrohir. After a short, rather one-sided struggle, the Silvan elf had shoved the other elf to the side and had sat down next to him. "Still, it was not what I was talking about. Do you see this?"

Aragorn looked at the piece of paper which his friend was waving and struggled to get the elven letters running over it into sharper focus.  
"A piece of paper with words on it? Maybe…" he paused dramatically, "A letter?"

"Very good, Estel." Legolas reached out and patted the man's arm. "I take back what I said about you this morning. You aren't quite as stupid as a mule."

"Mules aren't stupid," Aragorn protested automatically. "Only very, very stubborn."

"You would know," Legolas smiled benevolently. "So, can you guess what this is?"

Aragorn sighed inwardly. Why was everybody insisting on playing games with him on the one day he did not want to? He narrowed his eyes as he managed to catch sight of the first letter of the last word on the page, apparently the first letter of the signer's name: The elven letter calma. The man thought quickly. A letter which Legolas had received today, about which he was actually pleased and whose sender's name began with "C". He almost grinned openly. It really was too easy sometimes.

"So when is Celylith coming?" he asked nonchalantly, managing to make it sound as if he had been asking the same question for the past few days. "And how did he manage to smuggle his letter into the dispatches that arrived earlier today?"

Legolas' face fell, making him look like a disappointed elfling.  
"You are no fun at all."

"Tell me about it," Elrohir's grumbled, still half-heartedly trying to push Legolas off 'his' bed. "I come here to tell him such a wonderful piece of gossip and all he does is wave his arms and say 'Glorfindel?' like a dim-witted parrot."

"I did not wave my arms," Aragorn said indignantly.

"The word that would describe my extreme indifference to this question has not even been invented yet," Legolas stated haughtily and gave the man a dark look. "Besides, my news was far more important! How did you know that he would come here?"

"How many people are there in Mirkwood whose names begin with 'C' and who would send you a letter that would make you this happy?" Aragorn asked reasonably. "Besides, I know the crazy wood-elf in question. He's a crafty one; it was only a matter of time until he found a way to escape his father and join you."

"You are right about that, Estel," Elrohir agreed as he sat up on his brother's bed. "Sometimes I really think that he is overdoing the whole 'I-am-your-faithful-protector-my-prince'-thing."

"He not that bad," Legolas automatically began to defend his friend. Elrohir and Aragorn merely raised a dark, incredulous eyebrow each, and so the elven prince relented with a small, amused smile. "Alright, he is rather overprotective."

"That is a rather nice way of putting it," Aragorn grinned. "But I don't even care. As long as he leaves that horrible pet of his in Mirkwood, he can stay as long as he wants." The three of them shuddered simultaneously, remembering Celylith's hairy, ravenous and constantly ill-tempered pet, the baby-spider which he had named Wilwarin. "So, when will he be arriving?" Aragorn added, his earlier enthusiasm a little dampened by the memory.

"He doesn't really say," Legolas admitted, once again studying the short letter closely. "All he says is that he has worn his father down and that he's found a way to come and visit us soon."

"So that could mean either tomorrow or in a few months," Aragorn stated wryly.

"Yes," Legolas admitted. "You know his father. He was not happy about our little … misadventure and…"

"'Misadventure'?" Elrohir asked unbelievingly. "That's what you call near-death experiences involving pain, doom and blood nowadays in Mirkwood, is it?"

Legolas glared at the elf next to him and had just opened his mouth to say something – from the looks of it something scathing, sarcastic and scornful – when a soft knock sounded on the door, causing him to remain silent. A second later the door was opened and a dark haired elf poked his head into the room, relief spreading over his face when his eyes came to rest on Elrohir.

"Praised be Elbereth that I've finally found you, my lord," he said, his words obviously heartfelt. "There is a group of humans approaching, and since Lord Glorfindel is currently … incapacitated, your father asks you to meet them in the courtyard and greet them. The council is still in session, and since Lord Elladan cannot leave his bed…"

"Of course," Elrohir nodded seriously and gave the other elf a quick smile. "We'll be there in a moment."

The elf nodded and disappeared, and Elrohir slowly got to his feet, eyeing the slowly lessening rain with distaste.  
"What would bring a group of humans here in this kind of weather?" he wondered aloud.

"Let's go and find out," Aragorn announced firmly, clapping his hands as best as he could with his right wrist bandaged tightly. "I've had enough of sitting around doing nothing."

"You weren't doing nothing," Legolas protested while he followed the two brothers out of the room. "You were having a stimulating discussion with us."

"My point exactly, _mellon nín_."

Legolas merely glared at his human friend which the man ignored with ease, his thoughts still centred on the group of men that would be arriving soon. There were no human travelling groups supposed to be coming here at the moment, he was very sure about that, so what did they want here?

No matter how hard he pondered this during their way to the courtyard, he simply could not think of an answer, and that, as he would have agreed a bit later, was quite a good thing, too.

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Tibron had always thought he had seen everything there really was to see in this part of Middle-earth, but he was quickly revising his opinion. He hadn't seen _anything _yet.

The heavyset man stared at his surroundings with wide eyes, and, with some effort, picked his jaw off his chest. Never before had he seen something so completely, stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful, not once in his more than forty years. In the beginning, he had been too intimidated by their elven escort to pay much attention to their surroundings, but now he was simply too busy goggling to mind the beings that were guiding them.

Rivendell was beautiful. No, it wasn't beautiful, it was … he didn't know what it was. He was no scholar and had never had the chance to read much except for lists and things like that, and so the word that would be fit to describe what he was seeing was just out of his reach. Even in the rain the settlement looked somewhat … otherworldly, as if it was nothing but a particularly beautiful dream that would disappear if you tried to look at it too closely.

Tibron shook his head and tried to concentrate on his mission as they were crossing the gates of the elf lord's home. If he had thought that Rivendell looked beautiful from up on the path, he was shown that it was even more beautiful up close. Every building, every pillar and every balcony seemed to have crafted and decorated with the greatest of cares, so that absolutely nothing interfered with the simply perfect overall picture. He had never seen masonry, wood craft and art work of such exquisite perfection, and he very much doubted that he would ever see it again.

If anything, Tibron's sadness and unwillingness to be here even increased. He would treasure this sight until the end of his life, of that he was completely certain, but right now he would have traded it along with his left arm if it would mean that he wouldn't have to deliver his news. Somehow, irrationally, he thought that beings that lived in such a beautiful environment couldn't possibly be strong enough to hear what he had to say.

He had to shake himself slightly to get rid of the trance-like state of pure veneration that had been surrounding him for the past hour or so, and it wasn't a moment too soon since he and his equally awestruck companions reached the large staircase that led up to the biggest and most beautiful building in the courtyard.

Tibron dismounted, still occasionally catching himself freezing on the spot and staring in wonder at a particularly beautiful ornament or a particularly beautiful she-elf, and when he had finally managed to get off his horse he noticed for the first time that there was a welcoming committee waiting for them on top of the stairs.

The blond man took a deep breath, exchanged a quick look with his companions and grabbed his bags before his horse was led away by an elf that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. The bag containing the dead elves' weapons suddenly seemed to have become twice as heavy and red-hot, and Tibron shifted uncomfortably. The leader of the sentries who had found them nodded reassuringly and motioned them to ascend the stairs, and the man took another deep breath, set his jaw and began to climb the wet stone steps.

As they drew closer, Tibron noticed to his surprise that there were three entirely different beings waiting for them in front of the large, wooden doors. One of them was an elf, dark haired and looking very much like the elves he had seen no longer than a week ago in his hometown. There was another elf, but where the first one's hair was dark, this one's was fair, making him stand out slightly from his two dark haired companions. The fair haired elf's companion was dark haired, too, but he was no elf, something Tibron noticed only when he was already very close to the three beings. He was a young man and no elf, but that had been hard to tell from a distance because of his elvish clothing and his longish dark hair that covered his ears.

When they had climbed the last step, the dark haired elf stepped forward, a smile on his face that even looked genuine, to Tibron's mild surprise.

"Be welcome, friends." He inclined his head slightly before he raised it again, grey eyes that looked friendly yet inquisitive fixing on the humans' faces. "I greet you in the name of Lord Elrond, lord of this house. I am Elrohir, his son. This," he motioned at the man, who gave the group in front of him a quick bow, "is Strider, a Ranger of the North. And this," he added simply, nodding at the blond elf next to him who nodded as well, "is Legolas."

A small stab went through Tibron, but it wasn't intimidation or awe – he had dealt with quite a few lords in his time, human and otherwise. No, it was relief, because he was reasonably sure that this elf was not related to any of the dead elves his brother and the others had found. Well, at least the question of the dark haired human had been answered, he tried to cheer himself up a little. If he was a ranger, it explained why he looked so elvish, not to mention why he was here in the first place.

"My lord," he bowed after a moment, gesturing his companions to do the same. "I am Tibron, of Aberon. I have to speak to Lord Elrond immediately. It is most urgent."

The dark haired captain whose men had escorted them here stiffened next to him, shooting him a narrow-eyed look, but Tibron's attention was fixed on Lord Elrohir. The dark haired elf's expression did not change and the smile was still on his face, but all warmth and mirth seemed to have disappeared from his eyes from one moment to the next.

"My father is currently in a council meeting," he informed the blond man in front of him. "Maybe I can be of service? Has this something to do with the delegation we sent not even a fortnight ago?"

Tibron swallowed thickly and exchanged a meaningful look with his companions.  
"Yes," he admitted. "It has. Please, Lord Elrohir, your father will see us. By the Gods, I wished this could wait, but it can't."

Elrohir studied Tibron's serious face, a knot of cold dread forming in his stomach and stretching its icy tendrils through his whole body.  
"As you wish," he finally said as calmly as he could and nodded slowly. "I will inform Lord Elrond of your arrival and your wish to see him as quickly as possible."

"Thank you, my lord," Tibron replied, not sounding overly happy.

Elrohir merely looked steadily at the man, trying to squash the fear and dread that was growing in his chest. After a moment he nodded once, looking from Aragorn to the dark haired captain standing next to the men who looked about as dread-filled as he felt.

"Estel, Captain Isál, if you would escort Master Tibron and his companions inside? One of the smaller conference rooms would be appropriate, I think. What about the one close to the Hall of Fire?"

He did not wait for either of the two to reply something and turned around, disappearing within the house after a second. Isál seemed to tear himself out of his trance, gave Aragorn a quick look and raised an eyebrow, unease and fear radiating off him in almost palpable waves.  
"After you, Strider."

Aragorn nodded wordlessly and gave the humans in front of him a slightly uneasy smile. He couldn't remember having seen delegations from Aberon more often than perhaps twice or thrice in more than ten years. The fact that they were here now, after Erestor had only just left to visit their town, could simply not be a good sign.

The young man did his best to concentrate on the matter at hand and not give in to his steadily growing fear. If his father heard that he had not greeted their guests properly and in an adequately polite manner, he would have his hide.

"Let us get out of this rain, then," he addressed the tall, blond leader of the group. "You must be frozen to the bone! Perhaps you would like to warm up first, maybe have something to eat and something hot to drink…?"

Tibron gave his bedraggled, thoroughly wet companions a quick look and decided that there was no reason why all of them should have to face the elf lord's wrath. He turned back to the young ranger and the fair haired elf, inwardly steeling himself and shaking his head. The things he did for his brother…

"We thank you for your kind offer, Master Ranger," he gave the younger man the most courteous bow he could manage right now, wet and frozen as he was. "I would appreciate it if you could find some quarters for my companions. I, however, must speak with Lord Elrond immediately."

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a quick look, both trying to keep a neutral face. This was sounding not good at all.

"As you wish," Aragorn retorted after a moment and turned to Isál who had been standing as still and motionless as a stone pillar. "Isál, could you show them to the guestrooms and make sure that the kitchens send up a hot meal?" he asked the young captain in Elvish.

For a moment, it appeared as if Isál wanted to protest, but then he seemed to remember where he was and to whom he was speaking, and so he finally nodded his head reluctantly.  
"Very well, Estel," he said curtly. "But I will join you in the conference room."

The man knew better than to try and dissuade the elf. There was no way Isál would simply leave when the humans had some news about Elvynd, and unless Elrond threw him out, he saw no reason to try and make him, either.  
"We will be waiting for you."

Isál gave him a nod, a bit of relief shining in his eyes, before he turned and ushered Tibron's companions inside. Aragorn turned back and smiled at the older man, a smile that did not really reach his eyes.  
"Shall we?"

Tibron nodded, some of his awe and distrust having melted away by the friendly welcome and the simple prospect of a hot fire and something hot to drink. Legolas waited for Aragorn and Tibron to precede him, guessing correctly that the human would feel more comfortable in the ranger's company. The elves they met on their way to the small room close to the Hall of Fire weren't too surprised to see the human guest, for travellers stopped in Rivendell quite frequently, even though some of them surveyed the blond man with a little more curiosity than usual. Legolas shook his head inwardly. Rumours truly spread with a speed that would cause the most contagious diseases to go green with envy.

They reached the small conference room a few seconds later, and the next few minutes went by quickly while they stoked the fire, lit more lamps and had some tea brought here. Legolas quickly realised that his presence seemed to make the man slightly nervous, and so remained in a corner of the room, watching Aragorn try and have a conversation with the other man. It was obvious that, now that Tibron was sitting in a chair in front of a warm fire with a mug of hot tea in his hands, he felt no inclination whatsoever to speak before Lord Elrond arrived, and just when Aragorn had reached the "So, what about the weather, then?"-stage, the door opened with a low, creaking noise.

The three of them looked up just as Lord Elrond entered the room, trailed by Elrohir and a very resolute-looking Isál. The dark haired captain instantaneously headed for the same corner Legolas was occupying at the moment, nearly bumping into the elven prince in the process. It appeared that he either didn't want to unsettle their guest or wanted to disturb his lord and his sons as little as possible. Somehow Legolas suspected the latter; he doubted that Isál would take that much interest in the strange man's feelings, especially judging by the serious glint in his eyes.

Tibron shot to his feet even though he had not yet been introduced to the elf lord who had just entered the room. It had not been necessary, Legolas noted with a little bit amusement. Just like his father Lord Elrond possessed an aura that very clearly stated that he was in charge. Whether or not the two elves were in their respective realms mattered little in this regard.

"Master Tibron," Elrohir began, taking a step forward, "this is Lord Elrond, Master of this house. Father," he completed the introduction, "this is Tibron, of Aberon."

The man gave the tall, regal-looking elf a somewhat awkward bow. Now that the moment he had been dreading for days had actually arrived, he simply couldn't think of anything to say.  
"My lord," he finally mumbled.

Elrond smiled slightly at the clearly nervous man in front of him. If he was by any means displeased about having been pulled out of a meeting, he did not show it.  
"I welcome you to my house, Master Tibron. It greatly pleases me to see an envoy of your town; we see far too little of your people here in Rivendell."

Tibron actually winced at his words, and Elrond decided that now was not the time for pleasantries. Elrohir had not been exaggerating: Something had happened, and, if the expression on the human's face was any indication at all, something serious. Suddenly he almost regretted his choice to allow Captain Isál to attend this meeting.

"You have travelled a long way in adverse conditions," Elrond went on, trying his best to ignore the small flicker of fear that was slowly growing inside his heart. "Your mission must be important. Tell me, Master Human, what has brought you here?"

Tibron took a deep breath, then another and then a third. He finally decided that hyperventilation was not a dignified way out of this situation and raised his head, looking for the first time straight at the dark haired elf lord in front of him.

"I am here on behalf of Aberon's town council, Lord Elrond," he began hesitantly, calling upon all his experience in diplomacy – which was precious little. "They instructed me to give you their greetings and express their hope that this delegation finds you well."

"I thank you and your fellow councilmen," Elrond answered calmly, giving Aragorn a stern look who was beginning to fidget impatiently. He waited until the young man ducked his head sheepishly and continued. "But that is not all, is it?"

Tibron took a deep breath, his face becoming even paler.  
"No, my lord," he admitted after a few moments. "They also bade me to express their condolences – and to give you this."

Elrond frowned and was about to say something when the blond man opened the bag he had been holding the entire time. The elf lord literally forgot what he had been about to say when the candlelight caught on the long, gleaming objects that became visible, shining in the dim light like polished silver. The objects were weapons, Elrond realised, the fear in his heart multiplying tenfold, at least half a dozen if not more. His eyes came to rest on the intricate design of wreathed leaves that ran over the sheath of a long sword, and he forced himself to release a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding when he raised his eyes to the man's.

Tibron tightened his hold on the weapons and looked at him, sincere sympathy in his gaze.  
"I am sorry," he simply said.

He might have said more, but at that moment a steely hand appeared out of nowhere and grasped him by the front of his vest, very nearly making him drop the swords and daggers he held. The second hand plucked the long sword with the decoration of leaves from the tall man's grasp, and he was lifted slightly off his feet by an even taller and incomparably more furious dark haired elven captain.

"Where is he?" Isál hissed at the stunned man, his eyes darting to the sword he was grasping and back to Tibron's face. "Speak! What have you done to him and the others? He would never have abandoned that sword willingly, never!"

"Isál!"

"Captain!"

The elf didn't seem to hear them and, if anything, tightened his hold on the stunned man.  
"What have you done to them? If you have hurt them in any way, I will kill you with my bare hands and take my time about it, too. Where are they? Where??"

For a few moments, Aragorn was simply too stunned to react. His mind had still not fully comprehended what these swords and daggers meant, and all he could think for a few seconds was that he had never before seen Isál so angry. He finally realised that, no matter how interesting a sight this may be, it would be highly unwise to allow the young captain to strangle this man, and he moved forward. Before he had taken more than two steps, however, Elrond had reached his captain's side and had grasped the elf's arm.

"Enough, Captain." Isál blinked slowly, apparently for the first time truly realising what he was doing. "Release him," Elrond added calmly. "This will avail nothing. Let him go. Now."

There was too much and deep respect instilled in Isál for him not to obey his lord's order and he stepped back, a threatening light still shining in his eyes that Aragorn couldn't place immediately. A moment later he realised where he had seen it before: In Glorfindel's eyes, when the golden haired elf had been close to losing his temper.

"Where. Is. He."

The soft words were barely audible, and Aragorn closed his eyes at the raw fear he could hear in Isál's voice even despite the threatening undertone.

The blond man quickly backed away, as far away from the irate elf as possible, and rubbed his neck with a shaking hand. He seemed torn between the desire to escape from this room as quickly as possible and face the situation he found himself in, and in the end duty or fearlessness won out.

"Your friends…" He trailed off and took a deep breath. "They are dead. I am sorry, but they are all dead."

Isál neither moved nor said anything for long moments. He stood completely still, like a white, stone-faced statue, the only sign of life his soft breathing that could be heard, sounding harsh and laboured with suppressed pain. Some flicker of emotion flashed over his face, but before Aragorn could identify what it was, the young captain gripped his friend's sword more tightly and whirled around.

Half a second later he was gone, the door swinging almost soundlessly on its hinges. A moment later the heads of several elves appeared in the doorway, peering into the room with curiosity and even a little fear written on their faces. They had obviously heard what had been spoken, or at least parts of it – neither Isál nor Tibron had taken any special care to speak softly.

Before Aragorn was truly realising what he was doing, he was moving into the direction of the door, but Elrond's hand caught his elbow before he had reached it.  
"No, Estel," the elf lord shook his head. "Let him go. He would not appreciate your company right now – or anyone else's."

Aragorn nodded reluctantly, and Elrond looked up, his eyes wandering over Tibron who was apparently trying to melt into the wall to finally come to rest on Elrohir's white, incredulous face. Legolas had stepped next to him, looking at least as shocked as Elrond felt.

This man must be mistaken, the half-elven lord thought desperately. They couldn't be dead, _Erestor _couldn't be dead! He had known him for millennia, he couldn't just have died! Elrond raised his head abruptly as a thought struck him, and after a moment's hesitation he locked eyes with Elrohir who was staring at him as if he possessed the power to tell him that all this was nothing but a bad dream. Elrond felt how his heart began to break inside his chest. By the Elbereth, how he wished that were true.

"Elrohir," he began, unconsciously switching to Sindarin, "Please go and keep Glorfindel company for the next few hours, until I can find the time to speak with him myself."

Elrohir shook his head, as if to free himself from his shock, and looked at his father, confused.  
"_Ada_? Glorfindel is fine, isn't he…?"

"Yes, he is," Elrond answered in a pressed voice. He turned around slightly to the now empty doorway. "News will be spreading fast. And now just imagine what will happen when he hears that Erestor and the others are dead."

Elrohir shuddered slightly, both because of what his father was insinuating and because of what the older elf had said. To hear his father speak these words was somehow far worse than when the man had said them, as if they were made more real by the fact that Elrond had used them.

"Yes, _ada_," the younger twin said tonelessly and left the room without another word.

Elrond looked after him for a moment before he turned back to Tibron, his face carefully blank even though his heart was breaking inside his breast. Aragorn and Legolas stood in front of the fireplace, instinctively being drawn close to each other in face of this tragedy. Their bodies muted the light the fire emitted, making the small room look as gloomy and dark as their faces.

The dark haired elf took a step closer to the blond man, gesturing for him to sit down. Tibron did as he was bid, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor until he sensed the elf lord sit down in a chair as well. He raised his head reluctantly and found himself eye to eye with the stony-faced Lord of Rivendell. Somehow he would have preferred the elf to lose his temper or at least accuse him and his men of murdering his envoys – everything would have been better than this menacing calmness that was simply too perfect to be true.

Elrond leaned forward in his chair, his grey eyes dark and forbidding as they fastened on the clearly intimidated man's face.  
"Let us start at the beginning, Master Tibron. _What _did you just say?"

Tibron sighed inwardly and began to talk, and not once during his long narrative did Elrond's expression change even in the slightest.

**  
****  
****  
**

Night had fallen with an abruptness that made it appear almost unnatural. From one moment to the next the dim gloom of the day had been replaced by the inky darkness of night, and so the many lanterns and torches had been lit early, flickering in the cold air like dancing fireflies. It had stopped raining about half an hour ago, but the dampness still hung thickly in the air, promising more of the same.

Gaerîn stopped in front of a stone archway, studying the dark space in front of her with some hesitation. For a few moments she didn't move, but then she finally shook her head, pulled the dark green cloak she was wearing a little bit tighter around her small frame and resolutely stepped through the archway.

The path that wound through this part of the gardens was dark and nearly invisible, but Gaerîn possessed keen eyes even for one of the Eldar and so she had little trouble following it even in the darkness. The soft sounds of the main house fell away behind her as did the dark, grieving atmosphere that was lying over the Last Homely House like a thick, grey cloud, and the red haired she-elf unconsciously took a deep breath. Doubts once again sneaked up on her, but she firmly put them aside. She was a healer, after all, and had been for most of her life, and she had learned to trust her instincts.

After a few moments of walking down the narrow path, she finally reached her destination. The lawn to her right sloped downwards somewhat, and just in the middle of the small vale it was forming there was a small copse of trees with a stone bench. Even from where she was standing she could see the lithe figure she had been looking for, sitting on the stone bench so motionlessly that it might as well have been part of the scenery.

A myriad of emotions rose inside of the healer, most prominently affection that might have been even love. There was also fear, however, a fear that by what she was doing she would destroy the foundation on which their still rather tentative relationship was based. She hesitated again, but in the end the despairing air hanging above the elf sitting on the bench made her decision for her. She was no coward, and she would not walk away from someone who needed help simply because she was afraid.

Taking another deep breath, Gaerîn walked down the slope, pushing back her hood as she went. As she drew closer, she could see in the light her own body emitted that the elf sitting on the bench was indeed the one she had sought, something that was almost enough to make her halt once more. The light of the dark haired elf's body was dim and almost nonexistent, and there was an air of such hopeless despair about him that she felt her heart break inside her chest.

She was still more than fifteen feet away when the other elf spoke up, without looking up or moving in any way.  
"Please go away."

Gaerîn smiled slightly, a smile that was at odds with the sadness and sympathy in her grey eyes, and, instead of acquiescing the other's request, sat down on the bench next to him.  
"I would be a poor healer if I did that, Isál."

The dark haired captain laughed, a hollow, joyless sound.  
"No healer can help me, my lady. Not even you."

"Maybe no healer, no," Gaerîn admitted after a moment. "What about a friend, then?"

"A friend," Isál nodded darkly. "Yes, friends are always good. I ought to warn you, however. I seem to be in the habit of losing them."

Under normal circumstances, Gaerîn would have enjoyed the young captain's sense of humour. Once Isál had got over most of his shyness and actually managed to look her in the eye, she had found out that he possessed a dry and sarcastic sense of humour. Right now, however, it was only one more barrier he was trying to fling up between himself and everyone else, and she was not willing to allow him to do that. Especially not with her.

"Don't say something like that," she told Isál and shook her head. "You know that you are not responsible for their … for what happened."

She could have slapped herself. If she, who had been friends with none of the elves who had died, could not even say the word "death", then how could she expect Isál to talk about it, when one of them had been his best friend?

"No, I'm not," Isál answered bluntly, surprising Gaerîn more than a little bit. She had expected another of the "It's-all-my-fault-speeches" which seemed to be very popular with most of the warriors – and every other member of Lord Elrond's household.

"Somebody else is," Isál went on darkly. "Somebody who is about a head too tall. Somebody whom I intend to find and kill." He fell silent and lowered his eyes, looking at the long sword he still was grasping. "If you don't mind, my lady, I would like to be alone now."

"I do mind," Gaerîn informed the other elf seriously. "You shouldn't be alone, especially not now. It is not healthy to close oneself off after … losing a friend."

For a moment, it seemed as if Isál wanted to retort something, but then he simply shook his head wordlessly. After long moments he looked up again, unshed tears shining brightly in his eyes.

"He was not only my friend," he began, his voice far too calm and composed. "He was the one person in the whole of Arda who knew me best. I have known … I knew Elvynd since we were both children! He _knew _me. He knew what I was and what I am, and what I have seen and done. He knew what I regret, and for what I hope, and what I fear, and I never had to tell him about it. He simply knew without me having to say it."

Isál fell silent for a moment, his eyes once again returning to the weapon he still cradled as if it was something fragile and very, very precious.

"We made this sword together, when we were both in warrior training. There is one part of the training where you learn to forge blades, and we made ours together. They weren't exceptionally beautiful, but they have served us well since that day many, many years ago. Mine broke long ago, but he…"

Isál trailed off and shook his head slightly.

"He would never have admitted it, but he was very sentimental. His parents gave him the sheath some years back, probably to make the sword look faintly presentable, but he's never replaced the blade. He's been claiming that he's been looking for a 'real' sword for the past ten _yéni _or so. He always said that he would find the perfect sword in the end so he could get rid of this one and all the flaws for which I was responsible, of course, and now … now he never will."

"And what is really, really _funny_, now that I think about it," the dark haired elf went on, biting sarcasm and pain in his voice, "Is that I always thought that _I _would be the one who would die first. I was always rasher and more careless and more reckless. Elvynd was the sensible one. He shouldn't have died first. And if he had to, then I should have been with him! Nobody should have to die alone. I know that I am not responsible for what happened. But that is the one thing I hate myself for: That I was not there. He needed me, and I wasn't there."

Gaerîn tried to think of something, of anything she could say, but she quickly realised that every single phrase or sentence that came to mind was either stupid or platitudinous. Isál wasn't even looking at her, wasn't realising that this had been the longest speech he had ever given in her presence without blushing furiously, and so she merely reached out and placed one hand on his which were still wrapped around Elvynd's sword.

The tears came then, a few at first and then more and more until silent sobs shook the young captain's body as he mourned for his best friend who had just been taken from him without him being able to prevent it in any way. When the sobs became more audible, Gaerîn wordlessly wrapped her arms around the dark haired captain, throwing propriety into the wind and praying that her mother wouldn't stray into this part of the gardens tonight.

They sat like that for a long time.

* * *

**TBC...**

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_yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time; one yén is equivalent to 144 solar years  
muindor (S.) - brother  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend

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_

**•shakes head at Gaerîn's mother• No, my lady, I have NO idea where your daughter might be... No, I haven't seen her... Which captain? I have no idea what you're talking about... •g• LOL, such inappropriate behaviour from the young ones, they simply have no shame... •g• Anyway, the much awaited ... well, let's say reaction of Glorfindel and Elrond will be in the next chapter, together with a little scene between Erestor and Gasur. Yes, that elf is just as bad as Legolas. Oh, and Elrond is of course not quite as stupid as Acalith thought. Who'd have thought? •g• If you wonder what to give me for Christmas, I would suggest a nice little review. •g• Please?**

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Additional A/N:

**HarryEstel -** LOL, yes, alive, even if not exactly in one piece. I like your attitude. •g• And I can assure you that, at least at the moment, I have no plans whatsoever to kill him off. Never fear. •g• Elrond will indeed be less than happy about these developments. Then again, no one is really happy about them, including Erestor. I wonder why... •g•  
**Red Tigress -** •glares• I will REALLY be working on this story, since I haven't seen the Extended Edition yet. I am completely broke at the moment, so I can't buy it, and my family refuses to give it to me for Christmas. They think it's a stupid movie. I can't even dispute that, since ROTK really wasn't that great... •shrugs• Somehow I will get my hands on a DVD, however. •shakes fist• I will! •g• Oh, and I hope you won't get any hate mail. I have enough problems with spam already, so I can only imagine what hate mail would be like... •shudders• Not very nice, I guess.  
**Elvingirl3737 -** •blushes• Thank you! I had some trouble with Erestor at the beginning, and still sometimes, so I'm very glad that you like him. He's a complicated character, and has been giving me some real trouble... •evil look at Erestor• Bad elf! •sighs• I don't think he's very impressed... •g•  
**TrustingFriendship -** I'm sorry about the chapter. I re-submitted it after I received your review, and I think that did the trick. •shrugs• I really have no idea why FF-net does the things it does... And there aren't that many cliffhangers in my stories, at least not 'real' ones. Ask CrazyLOTRfan, she's always complaining that there aren't enough. •g• Then again, she is a little strange - but hey, who isn't around here?  
**Crippled Raven -** Oh, yes, my internet does that from time to time as well ... bloody annoying, if you ask me... •g• At least I don't have AOL. I hate AOL. It comes right after Microsoft. •glares at both• I hate you. Yes, you. LOL, yes, you got it. There were five guards plus Elvynd plus Erestor, but there were only five bodies all in all. Yeah, I do love dropping hints. •g• You ought to feel sorry for Tibron, too, btw. He's in a most uncomfortable position, if you ask me... A happy Christmas to you too, and thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**Bookworm85 -** •g• Well done. Seven minus one is six, not five. I guess I wouldn't have counted the bodies either, but I was half-expecting someone to notice and scream "Ha! I KNEW he wasn't dead!" •g• And you're right of course, I simply couldn't kill Elvynd. It's pathetic, really, and I tried very hard to kill him, but I simply couldn't do it. I'm too nice. •g• Thank you very much for taking the time to review - I LOVE reviews. I know, you wouldn't have guessed... •g•  
**KLMeri -** •g• I think the men ARE shaking in their boots right about now. At least Tibron is, since he is most definitely not stupid or anything of the like... The thing is that he doesn't have to lie. As far as he knows, the elves are all dead and were killed by orcs. That doesn't really change anything, of course. •evil grin• LOL, you can count on the fact that Gasur won't survive this story. I am not sure yet who will kill him, since ... well, let's just say that not everything is as it seems with the dear captain. •smiles evilly• God, I really love being cryptic and evil. Anyway, he will die. Eventually. •g•  
**Tineryn -** •nods proudly• Oh yes. I actually managed to update on time, twice and in a row! I am so proud of myself... •g• I'm afraid that Glorfindel's reaction will really be in the next chapter, and not this one, sorry. And I think that ... well, this isn't really going to be the way you're expecting it to. But hey, I didn't want to do what everyone was expecting! That would be boring, wouldn't it? •pauses• I'm not making much sense, am I? Ah well...  
**Ventinari -** You're reading this more than once? Kudos to you, that's really very brave... •g• Erestor really isn't too happy at the moment. But we really should cut him some slack, I think, I mean he's not really had that much experience with being captured and mistreated, has he? •shakes head• Poor elf. Gasur does indeed hate elves, and why he hates them will be of some interest for the storyline later on. No, I'm not saying more. •evil grin• Nobody in Rivendell is very happy at the moment, you're right, even though things might be a little different than you are perhaps expecting them to be. I'm not making sense, I know, but that's okay. I never do, I think. •g•  
**Aratfeniel -** •smiles• Of course he isn't dead. I'm not completely heartless, you know... •g• Well, sometimes I am not. Really. I don't know about yours, but my alter ego can be pretty intimidating from time to time. I really think it hates me sometimes... Then again, I think she's just misanthropic. •g• I hope.  
**Just Jordy -** Don't worry, I totally understand. Christmas can be horrible sometimes - I still have a list of things I still need to do which is about a foot long... •g• I can tell you, however, that Elrond won't be too happy about all this, especially in the next chapter, and neither will the twins & Co. Now who'd have thought? •g•  
**Barbara Kennedy -** •g• I thought so too. A week is VERY soon. •g• I really don't know how I did it last year. I must have had lots more free time, even though I can't remember having had it... Strange. Very strange. •g•  
**Viresse - **Well, I am sorry, but no, there won't be any Elladan in this chapter. I really tried to find a way to somehow smuggle him into the chapter, but there really was none that wouldn't have made everything a lot more complicated. The dear Elladan won't get very many scenes in the next few chapters either, I'm afraid. I'm really sorry, but well ... the plot demanded it? Plus I'm evil. I don't want the twins to go everywhere together. That would be boring, wouldn't it? •g• Be that as it may, thanks a lot for your review!  
**Marbienl -** Ah yes, the birthday surprise... Let's just say that they have other things on their minds right now. And who could blame them? •g• I have no idea when Ráca and Rashwe will make an appearance; I guess when they're leaving Rivendell. •shrugs• I don't really know yet, sorry. Hmm, Glónduil. Good question. I am planning to put him into another story, but I really have no idea into which one. I have lots of storylines I can follow, so I am not sure if or in which story he will be. But I'm thinking about it. •g• And I have decided not to comment on your ideas anymore. You are obsessed with H/C, did you know that? I will include some H/C in this story, but I have to admit that I'm not SUCH a big fan of it. I like Angst better. •g• And I'll never sign something like that! •indignantly• I love killing innocent elves - it's like ... like a hobby! It's a lot of fun, really! •g• Elvynd won't be arriving in Rivendell for a long while though. Come on, you know me! It takes me ages to make them do anything! •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing -** LOL, I know the kind of living pillows you speak of. I have one myself, it's very comfy indeed... •g• It's very nice to hear that you liked Erestor's look - I thought it would be unfair if only Elrond had one. Erestor is an elf lord, too, after all. •g• A very merry Christmas to you too, and Happy Holidays! •does NOT huggle•  
**CrazyLOTRfan -** They give such tests now? Now THAT'S what I call evil! •g• Sauron is nothing against it, I say... I have to admit, however, that I have no idea whether Erestor's look is as good as Elrond's. A staring contest might answer that question, but they might also burn holes into each other's foreheads. So I don't think we should try that... •g• Hmm, let's just say that someone will go into a fit of rage this chapter, and another one in the next chapter. Elrond, however, remains rather calm, even though he'll get scary in the next chapter. I just can't see him losing his temper completely. •shrugs• I hope you found a Christmas present and get lots of presents in return! Have a very merry Christmas! •g•  
**Itha Arrowland -** •blushes• •clears throat• •blushes again• •clears throat ... well, you get the picture• Thank you! It's very, very nice to hear that you're enjoying my weird little stories. I hope you'll like this story as well, and thanks a lot for your kind words! •huggles•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure -** Don't worry about reviewing, I know perfectly well how stressful school plus more school plus Christmas can be... •shudders• LOL, Acalith is who? The Wicked Witch of the West? That's an interesting idea... I have to admit that I've never seen the movie - the story is completely unknown over here. I read the book some time ago, so I know what it's about, but one of these days I have to see the movie, too... When I have time. Probably sometime around July 2007. •g• I don't know about the tea and the book for Elvynd, but I will think about it. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel -** Yeah, well, it appears as if all elves in Arda have such looks. Must be genetic, really. •g• I haven't seen The Grudge yet, is it good? It sounds rather interesting... Erestor isn't really insane, btw. I think he's just a little ... angry. Oh, and probably insane, too, you're right... •g• LOL, you want to call my alter ego Mini-Melkor? Well, that's ... interesting. Scary, but interesting. •g• Sound nice, though. I don't know if Reod is going to die, too, though. He won't be Reran II, that much I can tell you, but I don't know more myself. •shrugs• These characters really have a life of their own. •g• Yes, Elvynd is still alive. He's a tough one, and besides, I liked him too. I just couldn't kill him. I'm pathetic, I know. •grabs the cookies• Cheers, and have a very merry Christmas!  
**Elitenschwein -** •g• Wer ist momentan nicht im Stress? Ich habe gerade eine ueble Schlacht mit einem unkooperativen Keksteig ausgefochten. Frag' nicht, wer gewonnen hat... •g• Heute abend gibt's in der Tat ein neues Kapitel - ich bin auch sehr stolz auf mich. Ferien sind schon was nettes, nech? •g• Deine Reviews freuen mich immer, egal wie lang sie sind. Ich wuensche ein frohes Weihnachtsfest (dumm, wie es dieses Jahr liegt •grummel•) und sehr viele schoene Geschenke! •knuddelt•

**Once again, a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I hope you have lots of fun and gets a lot of nice, shiny presents! •g• **


	14. Threats, Guesses And Lies

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

I hope all of you had a very nice, relaxing Christmas! I hope all of you got some nice presents (even though my family and friends refused to give me the RotK EE because it would only "make me even crazier" •grrr•) and found some time to relax and all that. Mine was very nice as well, even though we spent about three days trying to eat ourselves into a state in which none of us could move. •g• Very interesting indeed.

Anyway, as you can see, I did not go to visit some friends. Sorry about that. •g• I'll stay here in this very nice city and will undoubtedly find an interesting party. Let's just hope we don't blow ourselves up with firework - it happens all the time... I wish all of you a Happy New Year, too!

I am glad to hear that all of you feel bad for Glorfindel. •g• He's a very unlucky elf lord and deserves our pity. •evil grin• I have to admit that I did it only to make it a little harder for him to rush to Erestor's rescue. We wouldn't want this story to be completely predictable, would we? Oh, and yes, Celylith will make an appearance sometime in the future, but not right now. In a few chapters, I guess.

Alright, so here is chapter 14 - already. Time flies when you're having fun, it appears... •g• We see a very annoyed healer, an equally annoyed Glorfindel, Elrond who is not annoyed at the beginning but will be in the end and have a little discussion between Tibron, Elrond & Co. (No, none of them is happy) Oh, and Erestor ignores the reasonable part of his brain and tries to argue with Gasur. Yes, it IS a very bad idea. •g•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 14

Gelydhiel was close to snapping.

She was actually a rather patient elf to begin with. Unlike Gaerîn, who tended to become rather impatient sometimes, she was not prone to losing her temper. She was quite longanimous, or so she had liked to believe until now.

Now she was only one step away from strangling the infuriating, arrogant, vexing, self-important, completely insufferable elf who was right now trying to climb out of his bed. For about the five hundred and seventh time, which, considering that both his ankles had been injured yesterday, was quite an achievement.

She crossed her arms over her chest with what she hoped was a firm, determined gesture and gave the blond elf in front of her the iciest stare she could manage right now.  
"If you do not stop this childishness right now, my lord, I will lose all control and do something which I might, and I have to emphasise this word, _might _regret later."

The elf in question did not look overly impressed which only riled Gelydhiel further, but at least he stopped his rather unsuccessful attempts to rise and glared at the dark haired healer in a way that would have given a Nazgûl cause for envy.  
"If you would stop _your _foolishness, healer, we would not have to have this conversation of which I am swiftly tiring, if I may say so."

"You and I both know that you are always saying exactly what you wish to say, my Lord Glorfindel," Gelydhiel glared back at the golden haired elf, what was left of her patience quickly disintegrating. Where was Gaerîn when you needed her? "And, pray tell, since when is it foolishness to stop an injured person from arising from his bed before he is healed? A person who has injured his _ankles_?"

"They're a little sprained, that is all," Glorfindel grumbled in a rather un-elf-lordly manner and once again tried to get up. "I have better things to do than lie here like the invalid I am not! So, my lady, will you help me leave this bed or will you watch while I fall to the ground clad in nothing but a nightshirt?"

"Of course I will not help you," Gelydhiel stated the, in her eyes, very obvious thing. "And I have seen worse things than you clad only in your nightshirt, my lord."

"You wound me, my lady," Glorfindel retorted, perching on the edge of his bed like a hatchling about to try and fly for the first time. "And I had thought you had been overwhelmed by my charm a long time ago."

Gelydhiel was female, unmarried and had a pair of working eyes in her head and was therefore fully aware of her patient's legendary charm and looks, but right now she could only raise her eyebrows and stare at the golden haired elf in pure, unadulterated surprise.  
"You … I … I cannot believe you just..."

"Neither can I," Glorfindel grumbled once again, looking about him for something that might help him stand up. He couldn't see anything, of course. Gelydhiel might be sneakier and more like Gaerîn than he had thought, and she wasn't stupid. Unfortunately. "I cannot believe that I am actually stuck here, with the only one of Elrond's healers who thinks herself to be Fëanor reincarnated!"

"You confuse me with my cousin, my lord," Gelydhiel informed her patient coldly. "She is the one with the Fëanorian temper. I, on the other hand, am an amicable person and … if you don't sit down this instant, I will take an herb book and clobber you over the head with it!"

"And I, my lady," Glorfindel retorted as he sat down again, giving the she-elf a dark glare, "am just in the right mood to throw it right back."

"It is a highly questionable decision to argue with someone who is in the possession of surgical knives and other sharp instruments," a wry voice interrupted them. "And here I thought you knew that, my friend."

If Elrond had thought that he could somehow defuse the rather tense situation, he was sadly mistaken. Both of the elves present in the small room in the healing wing turned their heads to give him a look that very clearly said that they held him accountable for their unfortunate situation.

It wasn't even that far from the truth, the elf lord thought, faintly amused, considering that he had ordered Gelydhiel to keep her unruly patient in his bed by any means necessary and had threatened Glorfindel with rather interesting things should he attempt to leave Gelydhiel's care a single second before he expressly allowed it. At least the dark haired healer was following his orders, even though she looked furious enough to tear a Ringwraith limb from limb – provided that Ringwraiths had limbs in the first place, that was. One out of two, that really wasn't too bad, especially when the second person was a thoroughly angry and annoyed Glorfindel.

When it became apparent that neither of the two would say anything in the near future, Elrond sighed inwardly and slowly and very deliberately raised one hand to massage the bridge of his nose. The headache that had manifested itself yesterday evening had yet to disappear, and he could already feel how it flared to new, previously unheard-of levels.

He wished that there was a way he could just take a step backwards and distance himself from the situation that had suddenly appeared and swallowed him whole, but there was of course none. Disjointed thoughts and feelings he did not allow to surface entirely swirled in his mind, and he forced himself to return to the present. Allowing himself to fully grasp the meaning of what had apparently happened would not help him in the slightest now. He was the Lord of Rivendell and his people needed him to be strong.

"Could I … borrow Lord Glorfindel for a moment, my lady?"

Gelydhiel very obviously took a deep, calming breath and whirled around, but not before giving Glorfindel a scathing look that promised unfathomable pain the next time she set eyes on him. With a quick movement she snatched up the herb book with which she had threatened Glorfindel a moment earlier and glared at Elrond in a way that clearly said that she absolved herself from all further responsibility for the golden haired elf behind her.

"You may _keep _him."

A moment later the last bit of her grey gown disappeared out of the door, and Elrond turned back to Glorfindel, making the mental note not to assign any healer other than Gaerîn to "guard" Glorfindel for longer than two hours. He had apparently appeared just in time to prevent bloodshed, judging by Gelydhiel's murderous expression.

"Before you say it," he began, slowly sitting down next to his friend on the rather narrow bed, "No, you may not get up, and that is final."

The golden haired elf did not even bother to look up and simply kept looking at his bandaged ankles, glaring at them as if they were responsible for his current situation – which was even true, at least to a certain extent.  
"Don't make me disobey you, Elrond. You know I don't want to, but you also know that I will if I have to."

"Because you are tired of lying around in your bed?" Elrond asked, knowing even while he was speaking the words what trivial nonsense he was talking.

Now Glorfindel did raise his head, his eyes as cold and hard as small chips of ice.  
"There is a human I have to talk to. I have some … questions to ask him."

Elrond didn't say anything immediately, studying the other elf closely. This was just the Glorfindel he had seen yesterday evening, when he had hastened to the healing chambers, fervently hoping that Elrohir had managed to restrain Glorfindel from doing bodily harm to one of the human travellers – or anyone or anything else that got in his way.

Instead of a battlefield, as he had been firmly expecting, he had entered a tomb, however, so solemn had been the atmosphere in Glorfindel's room. His son had told him that Glorfindel hadn't reacted as they had feared to the news of Erestor's death. He had, in fact, not reacted at all. He had simply looked at the younger twin for a long, long time, his face completely emotionless, before he had very deliberately averted his eyes and stared out of the window without uttering a single word.

No one, however, could think that the blond elf was unaffected by his friend's death. There was a dark, desperate aura surrounding him, the same aura that Elrond had sensed when he had seen the very pale-faced and red-eyed Captain Isál this morning. In Glorfindel's case, however, it was far more intense and concentrated. Elrond had no doubts whatsoever that it would take only a tiny reason to make Glorfindel lose control of his carefully controlled feelings and the overwhelming pain and rage that he tried to contain. He had no doubts either that it would be very, very bloody and painful once that happened. Not necessarily for Glorfindel, mind you.

"And you honestly think," Elrond began cautiously, "that killing or maiming the messenger is going to change anything?"

"He is lying," Glorfindel stated flatly, locking eyes with his lord. "He has _got _to be lying."

"He isn't," Elrond shook his head. Glorfindel did not answer but merely stared at his hands which he had balled into tight fists, and so he added, slowly, "He is not lying, Glorfindel. I would know if he were. I wish with all my heart that it were so, but it isn't."

Something seemed to drain out of the elf next to him, maybe the defiant disbelief he had worn like a mask since yesterday evening. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, but then Glorfindel raised his head, unable to hide the pain and sadness in his eyes.  
"You believe him, then?"

"Yes. No. I … I don't know."

"You don't know?" Glorfindel asked incredulously, not really knowing whether he felt surprised or a little indignant.

"No, I don't," Elrond shook his head helplessly. "I don't know what to think, not anymore. A part of me believes Tibron, and another would like nothing better than to shake him until he tells me the truth. But he is not lying, I know that as well!" The half-elf shrugged slightly, the same pain in his eyes that he saw mirrored in Glorfindel's. "It seems that I cannot even think straight at the moment."

"If … if they are truly dead," Glorfindel began in a low tone of voice, his eyes glinting determinedly, "I will go and kill the orcs that slew them. I will hunt them down, one by one, and I will kill them, one by one. I will make them rue the day they were ever spawned, and I will do it with a smile on my lips!"

"You of all people know that that won't bring them back to life," Elrond reminded his friend in what he hoped was a gentle manner. "Do you really think Erestor would want you to…"

"Do not lecture me!"

If Glorfindel could have jumped to his feet, he would have done so. Things being as they were, he simply remained sitting on the edge of his bed, an expression of such fury and pain on his face that Elrond immediately forgave him this outburst. Here it was, Elrond thought dejectedly. Glorfindel had finally snapped.

"Do – not – lecture – me," Glorfindel repeated through gritted teeth. "I have lived when you were still a fleeting thought in Ilúvatar's mind and nothing more! I have lost my home, my people, my kings and lords and more friends than I could count! Do not lecture me on what will help the dead – or me!"

He glared at the half-elf, who simply looked back at him. Glorfindel needed someone he could yell at, apparently, and better him than, for example, Gelydhiel. The healer would most likely either flee in terror or really throw that book at him.

"If it is as that man says," Glorfindel went on, "then Erestor is dead. Gone. I will never see him again on this side of the Great Sea, and maybe not even after that. Do you hear me, Elrond? _Dead_. I cannot tell what he would have wanted, you cannot tell what he would have wanted, _nobody _can tell what he would have wanted! Do not sit here and judge me for wanting to punish those who took his life when I can see the same desire reflected in your own eyes!"

Elrond didn't say anything, only too keenly aware of the fact that Glorfindel was right. He knew that it was wrong, that it would change nothing, but there was nothing he would have liked better at the moment than to ride out and wipe every orc ever spawned off the face of this earth. He knew better than anyone else that it would change nothing, but his warrior instincts screamed for blood and vengeance, and they were hard to ignore.

"Yes, I desire to kill those responsible," Elrond admitted. "I want to kill them with all my heart, but I still know that it is wrong."

"Why?" Glorfindel asked bluntly. "Why is it so wrong? I will mourn him nonetheless, in my own way, in my own time. If he is truly dead, then _what does it matter_??"

"Maybe not to Erestor, _mellon nín_," the dark haired elf nodded solemnly. "But to you. You don't want to go down the same road the twins did a few centuries back, and you know it."

The subtle reference to what had happened to Elrond's wife brought the other elf somewhat back to his senses, and, suddenly, all anger disappeared from his face and his shoulders slumped as he ran a hand over his face.

"It is my duty as captain of our forces to protect our embassies. It is my duty to ensure their safety and that they return home alive. And where was I when my men needed me, when my _friend _needed me? I will tell you where I was: Right here, in comfort and in warmth, and I did nothing. Nothing at all."

"It was I who sent them, Glorfindel," Elrond told his friend, lowering his head. "Against my better judgement, I let them go, right to their deaths."

"Don't," Glorfindel told the other elf tiredly. "You couldn't have known. It was Erestor who insisted on going with only seven guards. I told him it was dangerous, you told him it was dangerous. There is nothing you could have done, except chain him to the house."

"Then I should have done that," Elrond retorted darkly. "What good is some sort of foresight if you ignore it? I had a bad feeling about the entire mission, and yet I let him go! Sometimes I really think that I am under some kind of spell so that I keep repeating my mistakes!" He paused before he looked at his friend. "Glaurung is dead, isn't he?"

"Quite so," Glorfindel nodded, a hint of a smile in his eyes. "And so is Smaug."

"That's very reassuring," the dark haired elf mumbled.

For a while, the two of them simply sat side by side, staring out of the window, both lost in their own, dark thoughts. In the end Elrond returned from whatever shadowy path he had just walked on and seemed to shake himself slightly before he locked eyes with his friend.

"Something doesn't add up," he said firmly. "There is something that is just not right. I do not think Tibron is lying, but … there is something he said. I can't remember what it was at the moment, but there was _something_."

Quickly disguised hope flared to life in the other elf's blue eyes.  
"Then," he said slowly, "we should have another conversation with that man, shouldn't we?"

"Yes," Elrond nodded. "But it is me who will be having that conversation. You will stay here."

The look Glorfindel gave him was fiery enough to set even a barrow-wight aflame.  
"If you truly believe that I will remain abed while you go off to talk with that human, then you are either very naïve or quite mad, Elrond Eärendilion."

"Probably the latter," Elrond retorted, quite unaffected. "It seems that, no matter how many times I have already reminded you of this, I once again have to bring to your attention that I am the lord of this place. I will not have my seneschal and the captain of my warriors fall flat on his face in front of a foreign embassy!"

"I will not fall flat on my face – if you help me." Glorfindel smiled at his lord in what he hoped was a charming, persuasive way.

Elrond smiled in a way that very clearly told Glorfindel that his charm had either taken as much damage as his ankles or simply didn't work on the half-elf. Probably a little of both.  
"Strange that you would say that," the dark haired elf remarked almost smugly. "Whatever gave you the idea that I would _help_ you?"

"I don't really know," Glorfindel arched an eyebrow, looking almost as if nothing had happened. "It might be connected to the fact that I always thought that we were friends."

"I am your friend, Glorfindel," Elrond said seriously. "But I am also a healer and the lord of this house. Don't pretend you don't understand what I am talking about, because I know that you do. You know more about responsibility than most of the people I know. You will help neither me, nor yourself or everyone else by leaving your bed before you are able."

"And," Glorfindel retorted, an unreadable glint in his eyes, "I assume that it will be you who will decide when I will be able to leave my bed?"

Elrond nodded, without doubt or hesitation.  
"Yes."

"One of these days," the blond elf remarked darkly, "someone will be truly offended by that smug attitude of yours."

"Most likely," Elrond admitted. "I await that day with the utmost indifference."

He stood to his feet and smoothed his long robe in an attempt to give Glorfindel the time to relent gracefully, but when he looked back at his friend, he was still staring at him with a sullen, unfathomable glint in his eyes. Elrond sighed. Sometimes Glorfindel could be too stubborn for his own good. Whom was he trying to fool, he asked himself a moment later. Glorfindel was _always _too stubborn for his own good.

"Please, _mellon nín_," Elrond said softly. "I swear on my honour that I will come and tell you if Tibron has something interesting to say. I swear it, Glorfindel."

A few moments long Glorfindel merely looked at him, but then he slowly bowed his head in acquiescence. Elrond searched for words, for anything that would not sound idiotic and inappropriate and would still express the turmoil of emotions in his own heart, but he simply couldn't think of anything. In the end he simply bowed his head as well and turned around, and a few seconds later he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

Glorfindel looked after him for a long while before he slowly averted his eyes and returned his gaze to the window in front of him, staring into nothing with unseeing eyes.

**  
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Erestor slowly and very carefully took the tiny piece of blunt metal he had found and scratched a seventh line next to the other six furrows he had already scraped into the wall of his cell.

It took no longer than a minute or maybe two, and he drew back, scrutinising it intensely. It didn't look quite as good as the others (except maybe the first, which was more than a little crooked), but that was to be expected. Apart from the fact that he was slowly beginning to get annoyed with the situation he was finding himself in, he was also beginning to feel the effects of the … accommodations the dear Lady Acalith had provided.

The dark haired elf gave the mark a last look before he leaned back against the wall at his back, feeling how an entirely inappropriate, slightly hilarious feeling began to rise inside of him. If the entire situation hadn't been so horribly serious, he would have actually laughed. He would, in fact, have laughed regardless the situation, if he hadn't been inconvenienced by so many things.

One was that he was sitting in what had, in a prior life, apparently been a cellar of some kind. It was small, bare room, roughly quadratic and abundant only in dust and spiders. Oh, and dampness, the elf added, idly following a small drop of water with his eyes. It wouldn't do to forget the dampness, especially since it was the kind of dampness that seeped into your bones and turned them into icicles.

All in all, it wasn't such a bad place to be. It was damp, yes, but it was not wet. He had nothing against dust – he was a scholar, after all – and spiders (if they were normal-sized and not of Ungoliant's brood, that was) did neither scare nor repulse him. The room even had a window, high up the wall opposite the door. It was tiny and did only lead to a room above his, not to the outside world, but it provided air and a meagre amount of light and he was therefore content. He had never liked rooms without windows, and found himself praying daily that the humans wouldn't realise their mistake and put him into another cell.

No, the cell itself wasn't too bad, mostly because it was clear that the room had never been designed as a prison or a holding cell. What was really annoying him right now, however, were the chains.

Erestor gave the heavy, somewhat rusty manacles that wound around his wrists a dark glare. They were apparently rather old, and, if he was not very much mistaken, had not been designed for their present task. They seemed to have been the kind of chains humans – how typical of the Second People! – used to chain large animals like horses and bulls, and if he had been in a less depressed mood, he would have found the irony positively hilarious.

Because of that very same reason, however, they were rather ill-fitting, and he had given up long ago trying to find a position in which the crude metal did not cut into his wrists. The chains that connected the manacles with the wall were fortunately long enough so that he could sit down, but that was the only positive thing about them. At first he had thought that maybe he would be able to find a weak link or something of the like, but he'd had no such luck. The chains might be old and might only have been hastily fitted to the stone wall, but they were strong and solid enough.

Erestor leaned his head against the wall, allowing the cold stone to cool his suddenly hot face. For a moment he thought about going back to trying to force the small piece of metal into a more favourable shape, but decided against it soon. He had been attempting to shape that scrap into something long and needle-like for the past week, and had had no success whatsoever. If he had something long and thin, he might be able to somehow open the locks to his chains, even though he wasn't too sure about it. He wasn't Glorfindel, after all, and lock-picking had, up until now, been something he had considered to be outside his area of interest. It was an attitude he was seriously beginning to regret.

The dark haired elf thought about the reasons for his lack of enthusiasm, and came to the conclusion that they were identical with the remaining two reasons for his general bad mood. Both of them were to blame directly on that … that woman who called herself the lady of this place, and were also the reasons why, in the many sleepless nights he had spent in this room, he had been busy coming up with ways to kill her and her accomplices in a thoroughly painful and for him satisfying way.

The first was that, in the entire seven days he'd already spent in this oh-so-hospitable town, he had been given almost no food and so little water that each ration would have evaporated on the spot in a hot place like Harad. Elves could usually tolerate such things better than the other races, but even the Firstborn needed sustenance once in a while. Erestor knew that he was not in danger of starving – not yet, anyway – but he was definitely feeling weaker than he could remember feeling for a long time. Another week or two and he would have trouble standing, that was something he was very sure of.

And the very last reason, Erestor concluded with something like weary annoyance, was right now stomping into the direction of his cell, at least judging by the pounding of booted feet that was drawing closer. It was the most annoying thing of all, and, he admitted to himself, raising a manacled hand to touch the bruise that covered most of the left side of his face, also the most painful.

He fingered the dark mark, trying his best to ignore the nervousness and fear that was beginning to sneak up on him. Knowing what was coming was a kind of relief and strangely reassuring, but not exactly something he would call pleasant. Ever since he had arrived in Donrag (which he had in his thoughts renamed "The-town-where-everyone-has-gone-stark-raving-mad"), the dark haired captain whose acquaintance he had made earlier would arrive once a day with a few of his men, all in a truly congenial and happy mood.

He had realised from the very beginning that everything that put Gasur and his men into a good mood could only be bad for him, and he had not been proven wrong until now. They wouldn't truly hurt him, only … well, beat him until he was nothing but a sprawling heap on the floor. Erestor grinned grimly, his eyes not leaving the door in front of him. When exactly he had begun to regard being beaten up as not being hurt, he truly could not say. It could have been on the third or fourth day he had been here, when he had realised that this was nothing but a little sport for these men – nothing but a hobby of some sorts.

He understood, of course, what Acalith was aiming at with this, even though that did not make it any easier. It was only another method to weaken him, to slowly but steadily undermine his resistance. The men were careful not to do any lasting damage, and Erestor was sure that this was not even yet what that woman had threatened him with, namely leaving him to Gasur's questionable mercies. They simply made sure that he couldn't gather his strength and didn't have the energy to collect his thoughts and eventually think of an escape plan that might actually work.

His fingers traced the bruise on his face again. It was clever, really, and once again proof for the fact that, while the lady of these people might be many things, she wasn't stupid. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly.

The elf's hand dropped in the moment the key was thrust into the lock of his cell door, and a moment later the heavy, thick wooden door opened with a screech that would have caused a Nazgûl to clasp his hands over his ears in pain. The flickering light of torches appeared in the open doorway, only to be joined by the silhouettes of several men a moment later. Erestor gave an inward sigh, but made no move to stand up or move. He had done it for the first few days, and since it had yielded no positive results whatsoever, he was willing to abandon so fruitless a practice. Besides, he really didn't possess the energy to get to his feet.

Erestor took a deep breath and forced an expression of calm composure onto his face, even though he was neither calm nor composed. He might be annoyed and, if he was completely honest, also more than a little bit afraid, but he would be damned if he showed it to anyone, and least of all to Gasur and his merry men.

The man in question wasted little time and came sauntering into the small room, a nonchalant air surrounding his rather ordinary-looking frame. Erestor snorted inwardly. If there was one thing he had learnt in the past week, it was that Gasur was as far removed from being ordinary as humanly possible.

Gasur took a few steps into the room and stopped some feet away from the dark haired elf's thoroughly disinterested-looking figure. He still didn't know if the slender being was truly not afraid of them or simply hid it so well that not even he, who was skilled in looking for and finding the signs of fear in other men's eyes, could find it. It was something that both intrigued and angered him to an amazing degree.

The man handed the torch he was holding to one of his men who were crowding behind him and crossed his arms over his chest, a slow grin beginning to spread over his face.  
"Good afternoon, _elf_."

Erestor didn't even bother looking into the man's direction, busying himself with trying to find the correct word which would describe the way Gasur had pronounced the word "elf". He'd already used "hateful", "condescending", "spiteful", "scathing" and many other adjectives, and so it was not an easy task. Today Gasur was sounding vindictive, the elf finally concluded after several seconds, with a good bit of repulsion thrown in for good measure. He shook his head minutely. He was faintly interested in why Gasur hated him and his kind so much, even though he had to admit that, in the face of his current situation, this particular question was rather far down on his list of priorities.

He hadn't even realised that the man was apparently waiting for him to say something, and so the booted foot that kicked his own came as a surprise to him. Erestor forced himself not to show the pain that rushed through his leg as the heavy boot connected with his lower leg. This man must have toes made out of iron, he thought to himself wryly.

"Every time I think I have finally taught you some manners, you go and do something like that. You don't even answer me when I talk to you!" Gasur shook his head in mock sadness. "If you would just stop being so stubborn, elf, we wouldn't have to repeat this conversation over and over and _over _again. I am swiftly getting tired of it, you can believe that."

"Liar."

The word had been spoken so softly that Gasur wasn't sure if he had heard it at all, and for a moment he simply stared at the dispassionate elf in front of him.  
"What did you say, _elf_?" he finally asked, raising a hand to his ear incredulously.

Erestor was not really sure if he should kick himself or the dark haired man. He should keep his mouth shut, he knew that very well, but along with his strength his sanity and reason seemed to be draining out of him. He was tired, tired of this situation and the "company", and filled with hatred and rage that still burned brightly within him after all these days.

"You are a liar," he repeated softly, trying to ignore the noise in his own head that sounded very much like his reasonable part banging its head against a wall. "If you truly believe what you just said, you do not only lie to me. You lie to yourself, which is the worst kind of lie there is. Even you should know that."

"And why," Gasur asked, ignoring the half-shocked and half-gleeful looks his men gave the shackled prisoner, "would you think that I was lying, elf?"

"Because you are not getting tired of what you call a 'conversation'," Erestor retorted, lifting his head for the first time to look at the dark haired man. "Because you relish it, and because you and I both know that nothing, absolutely _nothing _I can say could possibly change the course of this 'conversation'. It is already set, and has been from the very beginning."

"How perceptive you are, elf," Gasur said mockingly, but Erestor did not miss the look of heated anger that had flared to life in the man's eyes. The reasonable part of the elf stopped banging its head against the wall just long enough to screech an irate 'I told you so!' before it resumed its earlier pastime.

"But," the man added, taking a few steps and looking down at the elf, menace radiating off him in almost visible waves, "you forget one very important thing. Let me tell you a secret, elf, a secret someone as high and mighty as you should surely know already: You are making me angry. Making me angry is not – _not! _– a good idea, no matter from which angle you view it. When angered, I have been known to react … unreasonably. And also excessively."

Something that looked almost like sincere pity flashed through the elf's eyes as he slowly shook his head, not a bit of fear on his face.

"You have been angry all your life, Gasur," Erestor told the man quietly. "I know, because I have known dozens, nay, hundreds of men just like you. Ever since you were a child you have been angry, and felt slighted and betrayed and afraid. Slighted by your peers, betrayed by the world itself and afraid of those who are better than you, and the Valar know that there are many of them. You do not need me to make you angry. You already are, and have been for so long a time that you don't even know what it's like to be at peace."

He shook his head again, and if he was in any way intimidated by the dark, dangerous sparkle in the man's eyes, he certainly did not show it.

"Under different circumstances, I might have pitied you. Things being as they are, however," the elf raised an eyebrow mockingly in a way that had even sent Elrond into spontaneous fits of fury in the past, "I do not pity you. I merely despise you, you and all you stand for. You can come in here, day after day, and beat me, day after day, but that will not change anything. You will always be angry, because you cannot accept that there are those worthier and cleverer and simply _better _than you."

Gasur's eyes narrowed so far that it was hard to actually see his pupils for several moments, an icy, cold light shining in the barely visible depths. If Erestor hadn't been very sure before that the man hated him, all doubts would have fled from his mind right about now – seldom had he seen a being that so obviously wanted to kill him. After what felt like an eternity, however, the man merely straightened his back and tilted back his head a little, shooting a casual look at his men who obviously didn't really know whether they should try to melt into the walls or hope to become invisible.

"Oh dear," he commented in what was most likely supposed to be a humorous tone of voice. "I have been found out. Whatever am I to do?"

'Leaving me alone would be a good start,' Erestor would almost have said, but the reasonable part of him wrenched control from the rest of him just in time. He would not sink to Glorfindel's and Elrond's sons' level and make his captors so mad that they could barely walk in a straight line. Then again, he mused silently, it might already be too late for that. Gasur, even though he was trying his best to hide it, was looking mad enough to cut him into little pieces. Tiny little pieces.

Erestor sighed inwardly. He had never before really understood why Elrond's sons and his friend were always so decidedly reckless when they got themselves into another of their infamous messes, but he was beginning to think he understood their motives now. He had never thought it could be so very satisfying to insult someone. It also distracted you from your current situation and the overwhelming feeling of helplessness, but the most interesting thing was most decidedly the satisfying-part.

Gasur finally turned back to him after giving his men some whispered instructions that not even the elf could understand, the glint still shining brightly in his cold, light brown eyes. Not for the first time Erestor thought how much these eyes reminded him of something reptilian and snake-like, something cold-blooded that wouldn't hesitate for a second before it killed you, and he suppressed the cold shiver that ran down his back just in time.

The man didn't say anything for a few moments, but then he took a few steps closer and crouched down so that he could meet the elven prisoner's eyes, yet made no move to hit him or even touch him. Confusion joined the apprehension that was swirling within the elf. Gasur might be a sadistic – and angry – excuse for a man, but he was also highly unpredictable.

"This is not over yet, elf," Gasur said quietly, so quietly that only Erestor could hear him. "I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to anger me enough so that I will disobey my lady's orders, are you not?"

Erestor merely raised an incredulous eyebrow. This one wasn't only angry, sadistic and unpredictable, he was also delusional and paranoid. Not exactly the most positive of combinations, he thought a moment later.

"I will remember this," the man went on, staring at the dark haired elf with pure, unadulterated hatred. "I will remember your words, and rest assured that I will make you eat them with the greatest of pleasures. But not now, but rather when my lady commands it." A dark smile spread over his face, and a small, almost unsteady flicker came to life in the man's eyes. "And when that time comes, you will regret having ever been born, that I promise you. I am, after all, as you have pointed out yourself, a very angry man."

Erestor would have almost nodded his head at the man's comeback. He was a fair person, and if he had not so thoroughly loathed and hated Gasur, he would have been more than willing to admit that the words he himself had spoken earlier had all but invited such a reply. He was shaken out of his thoughts when the man straightened back up, leaving him rather relieved but also confused. He had truly been expecting to be at least hit for his words.

All relief fled from his mind when Gasur gave him a cold smile that fitted the cold nothing in his eyes perfectly.  
"I will leave you now, _elf_. I think you should know that my men didn't feel so well this morning, so they brought their walking sticks. They are not allowed to use them, of course, but accidents do happen, don't they?"

Erestor's eyes darted to the other men who were standing at the still open door, and truly, each of them was leaning on a thick, wooden stick. They looked more like clubs or small poles than sticks of any kind, and walking sticks least of all, and Erestor returned his eyes to the man, cold fury burning in their grey depths.

Gasur exchanged a gleeful look with his men who ostentatiously leaned onto their "walking sticks" in apparent weakness, before he turned back to the elf in front of him, sadistic pleasure shining in his eyes.

"I shall reprimand them later," he promised solemnly and inclined his head. "Never fear." He turned around and stepped out of the cell, and his voice that was full of malicious mirth was the last thing that Erestor heard before the heavy door was closed from the outside. "Have fun, _elf_."

This time, Erestor thought sourly, "elf" had sounded definitely gleeful. He was still trying to remember how many times Gasur had emphasised that particular word in such a way when the men stepped closer to him, their "walking sticks" in their hands and wide, anticipatory grins on their faces.

The dark haired elf clenched his jaw and stared at the humans, trying not to let them see that, deep down, he was afraid after all. The walls of the cell seemed to close in on him, moving closer and closer to him and trapping him in darkness and in hopelessness. He tried to remind himself that neither Glorfindel nor Elrond would be deceived by Acalith's sad little charade, that somehow they would find out what had happened and that he would be rescued, but all thoughts of his home and friends vanished from Erestor's mind when the men stopped in front of him, standing next to one another like a tight, impregnable wall.

This was turning into something of a horrible dream, he thought just as the first man drew back with the club held high, and he was more than willing to wake up from it.

**  
****  
****  
**

Elrond gripped the sides of his chair tightly and forced himself to remain calm. He slowly began to count to ten in the tongue of his brother's descendants, doing his best to concentrate on the numbers rather than his annoyance and swiftly growing exasperation.

He had only reached "_hazid_" when his thoughts were interrupted, and he had to grind his teeth so he wouldn't say something that would be unbefitting his status and education.

"I really don't see the sense of all this, Lord Elrond. I have told you all I know."

This time Elrond really did raise his eyes to the carved ceiling of the conference room and prayed to Elbereth for patience. Lots and lots of patience.

"I do not doubt that, Master Tibron," he finally retorted, looking at the fair haired man, his eyes stony and emotionless. "It is what you do not say that interests me."

Tibron gazed back at him, unperturbed, and once again Elrond felt how doubts began to sneak up on him. This conversation wasn't going as planned, not at all. The only positive thing was that Glorfindel had – oh wonder – truly obeyed him and stayed in his room. The mere thought of what the golden haired elf would do to Tibron if he were here was enough to send cold shivers down the half-elf's spine.

"I'm afraid I do not understand, my lord," the man retorted quietly, dropping his eyes after a few moments when the elf lord's intense stare became too much to bear.

Elrond sighed inwardly and was just opening his mouth for a diplomatic reply when a soft, menacing voice cut through the tense silence like a hot knife through butter.

"You understand perfectly well, Master Human."

The dark haired elf lord would almost have closed his eyes and banged his head against the back of his chair. After a moment he slowly turned his head and gave Elladan, for he had spoken these words, a sharp, displeased look. He hadn't originally wanted to let the twins attend this little meeting, and especially not Elladan whose nearly broken hip bone could still be aggravated by even the most innocent movements, but it appeared that, sometime over the past days, he had lost all influence he might have had over his sons once upon a time.

Elrond sighed inwardly. His sons were usually rather obedient (if one ignored one or two little mishaps that had occurred over the years), but not even a Vala would be able to convince the twins to stay away from this meeting. They had both known Erestor for their whole lives and Captain Elvynd and many of his men had been their friends as well, and nothing short of drugs and/or chains would make them obey an order to stay in their rooms.

He couldn't even blame them, Elrond thought darkly. And he couldn't even use the pretence he had used with Glorfindel, namely that they were not well enough to leave their beds. Elrohir was perfectly alright, and even if Elladan wouldn't walk quickly anywhere in the next few weeks, he was far from being unable to move on his own.

The half-elf stared at his oldest son who was sitting next to his twin brother in front of the fireplace, and in the end Elladan bowed his head and averted his eyes. The older twin was quick-tempered and quick to speak his mind, especially when he was in a bad mood, and right now Elladan was in a _very _bad mood. He could also be almost as menacing as Glorfindel, and the last thing Elrond needed right now was Tibron running away in fright.

"I am afraid I do not, Lord Elrohir," Tibron shook his head firmly, obviously unable to distinguish between the two brothers. It was understandable, too, since both twins were clad in the same grey robes and had the same frown on their faces.

"Oh yes, you do," another voice announced calmly, causing Elrond to once again doubt his own sanity. Why had he not simply taken all of them and thrown them out in the very beginning was beyond him.

It wasn't that he'd had much of a choice, though, he thought a moment later. Where the twins went, Aragorn went, and where Aragorn went, Legolas was sure to follow. The Prince of Mirkwood had thankfully refrained from making any comments until now, unlike the twins and their human brother. Isál, who was sitting in a dark corner as still and motionlessly as a carved marble statue, hadn't said a word after having expressed his wish to hear what Tibron had to say and having promised not to repeat his actions from yesterday. The expressionless mask on the captain's face was something Elrond had seen many times already in his life, but every time he saw it he hoped with all his heart that he would never have to see it again.

Aragorn leaned forward a little in his armchair and gave Tibron an even, calm look, apparently oblivious to his father's dark thoughts. The young man had been unusually quiet for the entire day, and Elrond knew that the news of the delegation's death had hit him as hard as his brothers and the rest of Rivendell's population.

"I can see it in your eyes," the dark haired ranger went on, unperturbed by the other man's half-annoyed and half-innocent look. "You know that there was something wrong, too."

Tibron looked from the younger man to the silent elves next to him, and finally raised his chin defiantly, looking directly at the silent elf lord who was sitting at the long table. The blond man took a deep breath, apparently having decided to react indignantly to the questions he was being asked.

"I really must protest, Lord Elrond," the tall man said, not truly managing to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. "I understand that the news I had to bring you has upset you and your people, but that is no reason to imply that we are in any way responsible and…"

"Master Tibron," Elrond cut off the man with an impatient gesture that was very untypical for the usually so longanimous elf, "I doubt that you understand. You do not understand at all."

The man opened his mouth once again, but Elrond raised a hand before he could say a single word, the expression on his face brooking no argument.

"Lord Erestor was my chief councillor for more than an age of this world. I have known him even longer than that, and he has been my friend for most of that time. I have watched while many of those who accompanied him were born, and grew up, and married, and had children of their own. Do you honestly expect me to simply sit here and accept it when you tell me that they are dead? All of them, just like that?"

"Well," Tibron began rather ineloquently, "I…"

"_I _was not yet finished, Master Human," Elrond informed the man icily, his serious eyes boring into the blond human's. "Neither my sons nor Strider meant to imply any such thing. But let me ask you one question: Have you ever seen an elven warrior fight?"

Tibron shook his head mutely, clearly very intimidated by Elrond's words and the dark aura that suddenly surrounded the elf.

"So I had thought," the dark haired elf went on calmly, still looking at the man. "Believe me when I tell you that you would have found more than a few dead orcs – if they were indeed slain by orcs, that is. None of the warriors – or Lord Erestor himself, for that matter – was inexperienced or unskilled in fighting goblins or other servants of the Dark One. They would have taken as many of their foes as possible with them, and you would have had to wade through orc bodies to reach theirs." Elrond raised a dark eyebrow questioningly. "Did you?"

Tibron didn't answer immediately, his thoughts racing. That was exactly what had been bothering him from the very beginning: His brother or the others hadn't lost a single word about any dead orcs, not to mention a lot of dead orcs.  
"No," he finally admitted softly. "Not that I know of."

"Tell me then, Master Tibron," the dark haired elf demanded to know, "why I should believe a single word you said?"

"Are you accusing me of lying, Lord of Rivendell?" the man asked slowly, trying to hide his apprehension. His own honour and that of his fellow councilmen demanded that he confronted the elf about his words, but he would have preferred to remain silent. This was turning out just like he had thought, and if it had been his choice, he would never have said anything, least of all anything that could have been construed as a challenge.

"Somebody is lying, Master Human," Elrond said slowly, a dangerous light appearing in his eyes. "I do not say that that somebody is you, but, by the Valar, _somebody _is. And let me tell you one thing: I will find out who it is, even if it takes me a human lifetime or two."

He leaned forward a little, causing the man to unconsciously shrink backwards. Never before had Tibron heard someone state such things in such a matter-of-fact, uncompromising way, and if he was honest with himself, he had never wanted to, either.

"I will find out who is lying, and why, and then I will make sure that he regrets having ever sought to spoil for a fight with the Elves of Rivendell," Elrond went on. "My people are terrible to behold in a fury, Master Tibron, and once they have set out to do something, they never stop until they have achieved their goals. It takes something or someone extraordinary to stop them then, if it is possible at all." A cold smile that none of the other beings present in the room had ever seen the half elf ever wear spread over his face. "And I, for one, do not even intend to try."

Tibron might not be the most experienced diplomat, but even he realised a threat when it was jumping up and down in front of him. The man only nodded slowly, searching his heart for any signs of fury and anger and, to his surprise, finding none. If he had been in the elf lord's shoes, he would most likely have done just the same.

"I swear by all the Gods, my lord, that there is nothing more I can tell you," he said quietly, looking the elf lord in the eye. "It is odd that those who found your people did not say anything about having buried or burned orc bodies, and even odder that orcs haven't been sighted for years close to our town, but I – did – not – lie. Your delegation came to our town eight days ago. They left one day later and were found dead on that same evening. My own brother was among those who found them. He said that all of them were dead; he would not lie to me about something like that."

"Maybe he wouldn't," Elrohir said quietly, raising his voice for the first time. "I do not pretend to understand what is going on, but I think one thing is clear: If it was orcs who killed them, it was the strangest horde I've ever heard of. Orcs do not take their dead with them, so if they killed Erestor and the others, where are their bodies? I refuse to believe that they fell without having killed even one of their opponents."

"My son is right," Elrond nodded. "And if it wasn't orcs, then who was it?"

"I've told you before," Tibron was quick to say, "that we had nothing to do with…"

"Did you find their horses?"

The man fell silent and turned slightly, a movement that was mirrored by the other beings sitting at the table. The elf who had spoken these words looked at them emotionlessly, his blue eyes gleaming slightly in the candlelight.

"Did you find their horses?" Isál repeated after a moment.

Tibron looked cautiously at the dark haired elf, only too keenly remembering the way that very same elf's hand had lifted him off his feet and nearly strangled him yesterday evening.  
"No," he finally admitted, looking as if he was searching for cover in case the elven captain once again lost his temper. "No, no horses were brought to our town."

"Then they weren't killed by orcs," Isál stated matter-of-factly. "Orcs do not steal horses, and certainly not elven horses. They have no use for them as beasts of burden or anything else. If they were on a raid, they would have killed any horses they would have found and either eaten them on the spot or would have taken the meat with them. To try and take elven horses with them which would fight them every step of the way, and that in hostile territory … no, that would be too stupid, even for orcs."

"That may very well be," the blond man admitted willingly, apparently looking for a way to pacify the elf. "But, Captain, it is very well possible that they simply ran away and…"

"No," Isál shook his head firmly. "They wouldn't. I can't speak for all the horses, of course, but I know that Elvynd's would never have left his side unless ordered to do so by him or somebody else it knows." He looked from the sceptical-looking man to his lord, an almost pleading expression in his eyes. "It must have been taken, my lord, or it would have been there. They weren't killed by orcs, I am sure about it."

Tibron once again started to protest, but Elrond simply raised a hand and the man fell silent. The very last thing he wanted was another icy, menacing speech. For long moments it was silent while the half-elf looked from his sons to Legolas and Isál, taking in their determined expressions. There was no hope in their eyes, at least no hope to find their friends still alive, but Elrond himself didn't entertain such a hope either. The fact that orcs were perhaps not responsible after all did not change what had obviously happened; the weapons Tibron and his companions had brought were all the proof anyone needed for that.

"When will you be returning home, Master Tibron?" he finally asked politely.

"Tomorrow before noon, if possible, my lord," the man answered readily, relieved that, at last, he was asked a question he could actually answer.

"Then you will surely not mind if some of my people accompany you?" Elrond asked in a tone that made a negative answer almost impossible – at least if the man wanted to keep all his limbs. "While I believe that you are, in fact, not lying, these … open questions have become too pressing to remain ignored. I would very much appreciate your co-operation."

Tibron looked at the elf with narrowed eyes, but then he slowly began to smile grudgingly, realising that he had no options left. He couldn't refuse this request, not if he didn't want to admit indirectly that Aberon was in fact responsible for the elven delegation's death. O the Gods, the blond man thought to himself almost gleefully, Hurag would get a stroke.

"I will aid you in any way I can, and so will the council, I am sure," he inclined his head. "My men and I will gladly guide your men to our town."

"Thank you, Master Tibron," Elrond bowed his head as well. "I will see to it personally that everything will be ready tomorrow morning, so that we will not delay your departure."

Tibron smiled and thanked the elf lord, more than a little relieved that this "conservation" was finally over, and a few moments later he was gone. Elrond waited for the door to close behind the man before he turned back to his sons and the other two elves, his face serious. Before he could say anything, Isál raised his head and looked stonily at him.

"I would like to be a part of this group, my lord."

Elrond was about to refuse his request, but then he simply exhaled slowly and shook his head.  
"It will not change anything, _pen-neth_. At least nothing that will really matter in the end."

"Maybe not, my lord," Isál nodded, a cold gleam in his eyes. "But Elvynd was my friend, and he had no brothers. It is my right to avenge him."

The half-elf ran a hand over his forehead, his fingers once again moving to massage the bridge of his nose. His headache, which he had almost forgotten over all this, was back, and with a vengeance.  
"We will talk about this later, Captain."

For a moment, it seemed as if Isál wanted to argue, but then he merely nodded and stood to his feet. He gave his lord a curt bow and turned around, and a moment later he, too, was gone, leaving Elrond with his sons and their fair haired friend. It was silent for a long time while all of them were busy with their own thoughts, and in the end Legolas raised his head and gave his friends and their father a careful look, voicing what all of them were thinking.

"This is awfully thin ice we are all walking on here, my lord. It might not mean anything after all."

All of them nodded mutely, trying not to pay any attention to the slowly awakening hope in their hearts, and Elrond felt how his headache even increased. Legolas was right, of course, it might mean nothing, but in his heart he _knew _that it did. Something was wrong here, seriously wrong, and he would not simply sit back and do nothing.

Somebody was lying, and he would find out who and why. Even though it would not bring anyone back to life, he owed Erestor and the others at least that much.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend  
hazid (Adûnaic) - seven  
pen-neth - young one  
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**This is turning into something of a murder mystery, isn't it? •g• The only thing missing now would be Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot... No, don't worry. Not even I would do something like that ... or would I? •g• Be that as it may, stay tuned for another chapter next week, in which Elrond and Glorfindel have a little ... well, I guess you could call it "argument", Elvynd makes a reappearance (sort of) and we find out just who will come to Erestor's rescue. Reviews are, as always, appreciated, craved and generally loved. Really. So: Review? Please?**

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**Additional A/N:**

**HarryEstel -** Ah well. Yes. That would be a more or less accurate description of dear Glorfindel's reaction. Let's just say he won't be happy. •g• I have to admit that I have no intention of letting Elvynd get back to Imladris too soon. It would ruin all my evil plans of doom for our elven prince and ranger... •evil grin• Don't worry though, he WILL get back. Later. •g•  
**KLMeri -** LOL, yes, Glorfindel has hurt himself. Balrog Slayer or no Balrog Slayer, he is, after all, only elven. •g• You are right of course, Glorfindel won't join the rescue/revenge party. It would have been far too predictable, and I really try to keep everything a little bit interesting. ROTFL, who in their right mind would have said "Orcs skewered 'em," and then have laughed? Jeez, that would have been a very good method of getting yourself killed on the spot... •g• Oh, and you don't have to watch your email account for author alerts all day. I rarely update before 10 pm my time, which is UTC1 or whatever it's called. Meaning if it's 10 pm here, it's 4 pm in New York and so on and so forth. Voilá! No more watching the email account! •g•  
**Galadhriel Vornionien -** •g• So Isál HAS to survive to marry Gaerîn, huh? I really don't know about that yet ... it woudl be kind of funny to have him die on this stupid mission... •ducks fire arrow• Or not. I will think about it. I will have to do some research first though; I have to admit that I don't know how long elves were usually betrothed before actually marrying. I know that they usually married young (so Gaerîn and Isál are an exception anyway), but I have no idea about things like that. •shrugs• We'll see. Maybe they'll marry sometime soon ... IF Isál survives. •evil grin• I hope you had a very merry Christmas, too!  
**Bookworm85 -** So it worked? The whole guilt thing? •grins in satisfaction• That's nice to hear... •g• I thank you for your very nice Christmas present. If my printer worked right now, which it does not, blasted machine, I would have printed it. Really. •g• And you know Glorfindel quite well, it appears. He will indeed try to get up and kill the bad guys, silly elf that he is. •shakes head• Males can be so stupid sometimes... Once again, thank you very much for taking the time to review! I simply love reviews, as you've probably noticed by now... •g•  
**Ellyrianna -** I hope you had a nice Christmas, too! It's nice to know that you're still reading my weird little story ... I commend you for your bravery! It's quite a feat... •g• Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure -** •waves• Nice to see you for a change! You really should pity Isál, btw. He's not very happy at the moment - nor will he be in the future. •looks at future chapters• I wonder why... •g• I hope you and Celeb had a nice Christmas with lots of presents, and thanks a lot for reviewing!  
**Red Tigress -** Yup, they refused to get it to me for Christmas. They are evil, the whole lot of them. Their logic might be correct, but that doesn't make it any easier. •g• I even asked my grandmother, but she just said that there was too much violence and "ugly people" in the movie and she didn't want me to see it. Hello? I'm 22, for cryin' out loud! •shakes head• Family... Oh, and Legolas isn't that great in the movies anyway. •hastily• I mean, he hasn't much screentime or cool lines or... •trails off• Gosh, I guess now the rabid Orlando Bloom fans will be after me, don't you think? •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan -** Tsk, tsk, tsk, laughing at another being's misfortune is not a very nice thing to do. Not even when that being is Glorfindel. Shame on you. •g• As I said in the A/N, however, yes, Celylith will be coming, but ... well, not exactly in time to join the fun. He will rather join Glorfindel's troop of "leftovers", so to speak - and he's not happy about it, that much I can tell you... •g• Celylith won't find Elvynd though, sorry. As you'll remember, the Misty Mountains are to the east of Rivendell, while Aberon is to the south. Nothing I can do, sorry. Why didn't you just order the DVD via Amazon, btw? I've never had any trouble at all with them, and they deliver on time. I really like them. •shrugs• Yes, that was a little random. Anyway, I hope you had a great Christmas! •huggles**•  
Cosmic Castaway -** •innocently• It wasn't? I thught it was a very nice present... I am sorry for making you sad, btw. I didn't mean to. I wasn't aware that it was sad at all. Well, yes, maybe that little scene at the end, but that was only three pages or so. LOL, you what? Quiver in my presence? Well, that is most likely the most flattering thing anyone has ever said to me ... I think. •g•  
**Lynn-G -** It's nice to hear that you enjoyed that little scene at the beginning. I thought we could use a little humour after all that gloom and doom... Glorfindel's reaction to the humans' news is in this chapter - and also partly in the next one - and I hope you'll like it. Angry elf lords are not exactly easy to deal with. Poor Elrond, and Gelydhiel, and... •g• Don't worry, Elvynd isn't dead. At the moment, that is. •evil grin•  
**Alilacia -** Too quicikly, eh? I have to admit that that isn't what most people complain about... But I know what you mean. Christmas can be so horribly stressful. Whom am I kidding? It ALWAYS is horribly stressful. •g• You are quite evil, btw. Laughing about Glorfindel's misfortune is not very nice - understandable, yes, but not nice. •g• And no, you are not allowed to tell Isál that his friend is still alive. You would spoil the whole thing, and rob me of a wonderful source for senseless angst scenes... We can't have that. •g• I hope you're enjoying your EE. I wouldn't know anything about it since I haven't seen it yet. •huffs• I hate my family. •g•  
**Sadie Elfgirl -** You people are always complaining, aren't you? •g• Last chapter wasn't a cliffy, and neither was ch. 12. I really don't understand what you're talking about... •whistles innocently• Don't worry about Elvynd. He's still alive, and his horse is very clever. I have to agree with you about Rashwe, though. That horse would have most likely really eaten him or something like that... •g• I am in awe of your nicely wrapped review, I really am. It's the most beautifully e-wrapped review I have ever seen. Really. Thanks a lot! •g•  
**Aratfeniel -** Yes, Isál really is a poor elf at the moment. Not overly happy, either. •g• So you were giggling about Glorfindel's fall, huh? That's not very nice. Understandable, but not nice at all. He can be a bit overbearing and arrogant, though, I'll admit that. •g•  
**Andi-Black -** Of course I didn't kill Elvynd. As I said, I am not some sort of evil and sadistic montster. My alter ego is, though. •g• As I said in the A/N, yes, Celylith will be arriving sometime in the future. Not right now, though. I guess sometime in chapter 18 or something like that. I really can't say at the moment. My characters insist on behaving unpredictably, silly elves and rangers that they are... •g• Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**Elvingirl3737 -** Thanks a lot, it's nice to hear that you enjoyed the last chapter. And the angst of course, let's not forget the angst. •g• Ah yes, Elrond's and Glorfindel's reaction... Let's just say that they aren't too happy at the moment. And who can blame them? •g• LOL, so YOU kidnapped Estel, huh? It took me ages to find him, and when I did, he looked rather rumpled and pale - I wonder why? •g•  
**Crystal-Rose15 -** Yeah, me too. They won't tell you anything till mid-January, but I really hope to get a place. •shrugs• Ah well, we'll see. And I understand what you mean. Acalith may be an evil b••••, but she's a strong woman, that's for sure. An well, the gruesome twosome. They won't be much in this chapter, I'm afraid, but I promise to put them into the next. We can't have a few chapters without them, can we? •shakes head• Most definitely not. •takes nice shiny review• A review? For me? Thanks so much! And I only had to wait a day (we celebrate on the evening of the 24th here), wonderful! Thanks! •huggles•  
**Arrina -** •g• Yes. Mr. High and Mighty fell. Who'd have thought? •evil grin• Celylith won't be arriving just now though, sorry. He won't hear Tibron's story either. I'm not completely sure yet when he'll make an appearanace, perhaps around ch. 18 or something like that. I just don't know yet. So "Car" and "Thuri" are your sister's pets, huh? I'm not sure if I want to meet her then... •g• I think I'll take your white Shepherd. She and my dog would get along just great, I think. •g•  
**Grumpy -** Ah well, it's only a FEW dead elves until now, isn't it? I mean ... five? ... isn't too bad, is it? •shakes head• Just you wait, it can always get worse... •cackles evilly• Thanks a lot for all your reviews, and I hope you had a great Christmas, too!  
**Jazmin3 Firewing -** •g• Glad to hear that you liked my "present". And I know what you mean. I was planning to write a lot this past week, too, but I hardly managed to write one chapter. It's pathetic, but I'm just too lazy to actually think about anything. •g• Now that you mention it, cameras would be very nice. I've often wished to be able to see the look on someone's face... •shrugs• Ah well, we'll have to make do with fanfics, I fear. Thanks for all your reviews, and I wish you a very happy New Year!  
**Tineryn -** LOL, no, Imladris won't declare war, at least not right away. Would be interesting, though... •g• Elrond is indeed not very happy, though, so you're correct, in a way. And I have to admit that I have no idea whether or not she-elves get PMS. Then again, Tolkien was rather Catholic, so I doubt that he even thought about things like that. A shame, really. •g•  
**Tiryns -** Hmm, let's just say that Elrond will try. Whether or not Glorfindel actually listens to him is another matter entirely... He's stubborn, the dear elf... •g• Oh, and they won't figure out that Erestor is still alive. How should they? Not even Tibron knows (or anyone else in his town, at least for sure), so he isn't lying when he tells Elrond that he knows nothing more. And to answer your question: He won't. Glorfindel will stay in Rivendell, however unwillingly. Even elven bones need some time to heal, so he wouldn't be able to help anyone. Poor him. •g•  
**TrustingFriendship -** •grins evilly• That, my dear friend, is a very good question. How indeed will Glorfindel manage to do that? The answer is quite simply, though: He won't. •g• Oh, I love being evil... And don't worry: Someone will kill the bad guys in the end. I'm not sure who yet, but someone will. I promise. •g•  
**Marbienl -** LOL, yes, you are right. Celylith will most likely be horrified. And a little gleeful as well, I suppose... •g• You go huggle Glorfindel, mate. I think he needs it right now... •shoves Marbienl into Glorfindel's direction• Oh, and don't worry about Isál travelling to the Havens. He is right now rather preoccupied with the desire to slit the throat of every orc ever spawned. •g• Oh yes, that's Angst alright. There will be quite a bit of that in here, don't worry. •evil grin• Halbarad, eh? That's an interesting idea, you know... I really should write a story with Aragorn and a few other rangers... Damn you! •points at a dozen new plot bunnies• See what you've done! •g• LOL, Tibron as a potentional cutie? That's interesting ... a little disturbing, but interesting... •g• I hope you had a lovely Christmas with lots of presents and not too much stress, and wish you a happy New Year! •huggles•  
**Felicity 14 -** Let me see. I am not picking on every single character that I possess. Well, yes, there was that thing with Celylith, and Anardir and Galalith, and Elvynd and Isál and Reran and Seobryn and Laenro and Ethoani and.... •trails off• Well, there might have been a few, but I'm sure that, sometime, somewhere, I have created a character that I haven't tormented yet. Give me some time and I'll tell you which one. •g• And it's not ME who gets Legolas into trouble. He does that all on his own, really! •g• Be that as it may, thanks a lot for your review! It was a very nice Christmas present!  
**Ventinari -** It's very nice to hear that your Christmas was so great. In my family it is always a bit stressful since we almost always argue about the most ridiculous things, but somehow we managed not to this year. Miracles do happen. •g• Tibron does indeed deserve our pity and sympathy. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes, either. •g• And the answer to your question is rather simple: He won't. That was the whole point, making sure that Glorfindel wouldn't be able to come to Erestor's rescue. Yes, I AM evil. Oh, and I also didn't want this to be too predictable. Mainly it was the evil thing, though. •g•  
**Nietta -** •takes chocolate• Thanks! You can never have too much of it... We usually argue about everything too. This year was rather peaceful, but who knows what the next will bring... Don't ask me about when Aragorn will get his presents. I really have no idea. Sometime at the end, I guess. Great you like Elrohit btw. I wasn't doing it on purpose, but sometimes I really get tired of how the twins are portrayed on FF-net. Carefree and all that, alright, that's fine, but they're nearly three thousand years old, for cryin' out loud! They would know how to behave like elf lords, even if only sometimes! •shrugs• Ignore me. I'm talking nonsense.  
**Crippled Raven -** Uhm, no, he isn't. Taking the news well, I mean. Who'd have thought? •g• LOL at the mental image of Glorfindel hobbling off to avenge Erestor! That is something I would very much like to see... •g• And I really must protest! Just why would you think that I would do something horrible to Celylith? That thought had never crossed my mind, I swear! Now that you mention it, however... •evil grin• About the ankle thing: That was a typical translation error (what luck that my mother just gave me the world's largest English Thesaurus!), but now that I've checked it, I think that you can dislocate your ankle, or rather some tendons in your ankle. •shrugs• I'll have to ask a friend of mine who's studying medicine. She should know. Oh, and I know what you're talking about. Microsoft Word is the most evil software of all time. Thank God for temp. files. •g•  
**Elitenschwein -** Nein, WIR trauen Nili das nicht zu. DU vielleicht schon, WIR aber nicht. •g• Warum alle an Erestor-Gasur conversations denken, weiss ich auch nicht. Ihr Leute seid eben ein wenig komisch. •zuckt Schultern• LOL, ich kann mir gut vorstellen, dass ihr (und ich vielleicht auch •g•) euch alle die Finger nach einer Lungenentzuendung lecken wuerdet. Leider passt das aber nicht in die Story, also muss das wohl noch ein wenig warten. Sorry. •g• Es freut mich doch, dass du diesen Teil des Kapitels mochtest. Wir brauchen alle mal ab und zu ein wenig Humor, nech? Ich bin also verantworlich fuer "verrückten Menschen und wahnsinnigen Foltermethoden", ja? Also, so kann man das nun wirklich nicht sagen! Mein Alter Ego und Jack haben da auch so ihren Anteil! •g• Ich danke dir ganz herzlich fuer dieses schoene Weihnachtsgeschenk und wuensche dir einen guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr. Jag' dich nicht mit polnischen Boellern in die Luft! •g•

**Alright, that's it, I think. I'll leave you now to watch "Alexander" with Jack. She's assured me that it's a rather entertaining movie. Besides, Colin Farrell with blond hair and Jared Leto as his boyfriend? That I've GOT to see! •g• **


	15. For the Sake of Argument

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

First of all: A very happy New Year! I hope you all had fun on the weekend, didn't drink too much and didn't blow yourselves up with fireworks of any kind. It does happen far too often, after all. •shrugs•

Second: I'm not really sure if I can actually recommend "Alexander" to anyone. It's a nice enough movie (the Battle of Gaugamela is just awesome! I mean it, the best cavalry charge I've ever seen!), and Jared Leto/Hephaistion is VERY nice-looking, but otherwise... The whole film is a little strange, and more than once my friend and I nearly got kicked out of the cinema because we were laughing so hard. •indignantly• It's not our fault! Why does everyone keep acting so bloody crazy? Ah well, whatever. It's funny and there are lots of handsome men in skirts, but that's about it. •g•

And, last but not least, I am indeed very proud of Glorfindel. He actually manages to act responsibly and reasonably for once - then again, he IS a millennia-old elf lord. He's not as stupid or reckless as Aragorn, Legolas & Co. Good for him. If he's really, really lucky, he might survive long enough to be cut out of the movies by PJ. •g•

Alright, here's chapter 15, in which we finally see Elvynd again. Yeah, I know, about bloody time. He doesn't really get back to Rivendell now, but he's still alive, never fear. For now, that is. •evil grin• Other than that, we also have a small ... well, let's call it a conversation, shall we? ... between Elrond and Glorfindel and another one between Elladan and Legolas. Most of the aforementioned elves are NOT happy at the moment, no. •g•

**Enjoy and review, please!**

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**Chapter 15 

"…and that is why you will be staying here," Elrond finished his sentence, barely daring to look at the elf he was addressing.

He finally did, and regretted it almost instantaneously. The expression on the golden haired elf's face, a mixture of faint amusement, indignation, anger and incredulity, was not something he liked to see on anyone's face, and least of all on Glorfindel's face. And most certainly not on Glorfindel's face when he was having such a bad day.

"I am sorry," he added after a moment, belatedly deciding that he could just as well try a more sympathetic approach. "I truly am, my friend, but it has to be this way."

Glorfindel merely continued looking at him without saying anything, and Elrond crossed his arms and glared back with the same fierceness. He was Elrond Peredhil, son of Eärendil and Elwing the White, and he would not be cowed by another elf in his own house! Not even if that elf was Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin.

When the blond elf didn't say even a single word for several long moments, Elrond gave him a long-suffering look and uncrossed his arms.  
"Say something! Even monosyllabic words will be welcome!"

Glorfindel stared at him, a golden eyebrow arched in either deep loathing or incredulous amusement.  
"I always thought I knew what ridiculous was – until this day."

Elrond exhaled tiredly and closed his eyes, leaning back in his armchair. The ever-present headache had turned into something very closely resembling a full-blown migraine, even though he hadn't known that elves could even get migraines. Then again, he thought darkly, he had been all but asking for an answer such as this one, hadn't he?

"It's for the best," the half-elf finally said, as calmly as he could.

"Whose best, Elrond?" Glorfindel asked, biting sarcasm in his voice. "Mine? Yours? Erestor's? Captain Elvynd's, or that of those young ones who died with him? Whose, Elrond?"

"All of the above," Elrond nodded, a hint of a warning in his voice.

If Glorfindel noticed said hint, he surely did not show it and merely raised his other eyebrow.  
"I stand corrected," he announced mockingly. "This is leaving ridiculous far behind and is beginning to border on farcical."

Elrond's brows drew together, mirroring the annoyance that was beginning to build inside of him. Sometimes he was really beginning to understand that balrog that had had the misfortune to meet the golden haired elf lord all these ages ago. If Glorfindel had spoken to it in just this kind of voice, he for one absolved it from any guilt whatsoever. It would have been a matter of self-defence, then.

"Are you quite finished?"

"No, Elrond, I am _not _finished!" his friend exclaimed, sitting up even straighter. Every other elf would have looked slightly ridiculous sitting on the edge of a bed with two bandaged ankles and clad only in a nightshirt, but Glorfindel managed to look only thunderous and very, very scary. "I am not nearly finished! You honestly expect me – me, the captain of our forces! – to stay here while you send out _children _to do my duty?"

Elrond knew that Glorfindel was irritated, annoyed, stricken with sorrow and also in more pain than he wanted to admit, but that did not mean that he reacted to such words well.  
"You accuse me of negligence or irresponsibility? You, who know me best of all?"

"Yes, I do know you, Elrond," the golden haired elf nodded, indignation and anger still shining in his eyes. "And you know me, and so I ask of you: How can you demand this from me? You have been my friend for long years, and yet you ask this of me? How could I live with myself if any of them got hurt, doing what _I _should be doing? How can you ask this of me, Elrond, tell me, for I surely do not know!"

"For one, they are not children," the other elf lord tried a more reasonable approach. "Elrohir and the prince are both close to twenty _yéni_, and some of the warriors are even older."

"Twenty _yéni_, thirty _yéni_, it matters not," Glorfindel brushed his words aside with an impatient move of his hand. "They are children still, all of them! I cannot let them go while I remain here, doing nothing! I have the same right as they to wish to avenge our dead, and I do not intend to let anyone stop me! Not even you, Elrond."

"I do not want to stop you, Glorfindel," Elrond retorted, more heatedly than he would have wished. "If you are so well, my friend, then arise! I would very much like to see you walk out of this room unaided!"

Even in a less irritated mood Glorfindel would most likely not have refused such a challenge. There was a dark, angry light shining in his eyes when he gave the dark haired elf sitting next to him a last, scathing glare, and then he braced his arms and pushed himself to his feet. He managed to stay on his feet, even though his face went several shades whiter, and even though all of Elrond's healer instincts screamed at him to help his friend – to help his patient – he forced himself to remain where he was. If Glorfindel wanted to do this the hard way, in a manner better befitting an elfling than an elf lord of his rank and experience, then he was very welcome to do so.

Now nearly as white as the rumpled sheets on the bed, the golden haired elf gave him a look that was full of dogged determination and stubbornly took a step forward. If Elrond had been less angry and annoyed, he would actually have enjoyed the sight – in an evil, rather sadistic sort of way, that was. Since both of Glorfindel's ankles were injured, he only had two choices, and even though he chose the less painful possibility – namely keeping his weight on his dislocated ankle until now – it was inevitable to use the broken one.

In the moment the broken joint touched the ground and was forced to carry the blond elf's weight, several things seemed to happen at once. Glorfindel's pale face turned first grey, then even paler and finally assumed a slightly greenish tinge, and he began to fall to the ground faster than mortal eyes could follow. Fortunately for him, Elrond was not mortal, and so a pair of hands snatched the back of his shirt before he could hit the ground, and through the haze of pain that had suddenly engulfed his mind he could hear the voice of his best friend, sounding vaguely annoyed and definitely amused.

"That, my friend, was meant rhetorically. Only an idiot such as yourself would actually try and walk with one of his ankles broken and the other dislocated!"

"And only an idiot such as yourself would actually tempt someone to do something like that," Glorfindel ground out between gritted teeth while the other elf was helping him back onto the bed. "You have a vicious streak, Elrond."

"It's not a streak, it's a way of life," Elrond smirked half-heartedly as he lowered the other elf onto the bed he had just vacated. "And besides, a vicious streak is nothing in comparison to a head that's bone through and through! Just what did you think you were doing?"

"You dared me to," Glorfindel retorted sulkily, still taking deep breaths to combat the pain.

"I did _what_?" the other elf asked unbelievingly. "We're not fifty any more, Glorfindel! I did no such thing!" Glorfindel didn't say anything and only mumbled something under his breath that didn't sound very agreeable, and so Elrond crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture he had used in countless attempts to impress the seriousness of the situation on his sons. "Are you going to give me your word that you won't do something like this again or will I have to order Gaerîn to get the chains?"

"Please don't," the golden haired elf pleaded seriously, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "Please don't ask something of me which I cannot give."

Elrond gave his friend a half-exasperated, half-fond look and sat back down onto his armchair, studying the other elf closely with something akin to desperation.  
"I will not, if you will cease to make this harder than it has to be."

At that the blond elf raised his head, for the first time truly looking at his lord, and even Elrond was startled at the depth of the pain and sadness he could see in the deep blue eyes of his oldest friend.  
"He was my friend, Elrond."

Despite everything the half-elf smiled gently and nodded his head.  
"Yes, he was," he agreed softly. "And he was mine as well. I know how much you hurt, I know it because I hurt just the same, but you cannot let that pain rule your life or make your decisions for you. It is not a matter of me not wanting you to go, Glorfindel. It is a simple matter of you not being able to go, whether or not I would wish you to."

"You don't understand," Glorfindel shook his head flatly, his hands balling into fists without him realising it. "He was my _friend_. There are not many on which I would bestow that title without thought, and now there are even fewer of them. I lost so many of my friends without being able to prevent their fate or avenge their deaths; I cannot simply do nothing when I have that chance for once. I will find a way not to burden the others, Elrond, I promise, but you have to let me go, I beg of you! I simply cannot accept it once more without doing _anything_!"

"And I?" Elrond asked quietly. "Am I not your friend as well?"

"Of course you are," Glorfindel said almost curtly. "You are more of a brother to me than anyone else on this side of the Sea, as you well know."

"Then all I ask is that you listen to me once in your whole life," Elrond demanded firmly, his eyes fixed determinedly on his friend's face. "In your current state you would be a burden to the ones who are to accompany the humans – yes, a burden, Glorfindel," he confirmed, ignoring the other elf's dark glare. "Even if your left ankle manages to heal completely in the next few hours, something which I seriously doubt, by the way, your right one will still be broken. Elven regenerative powers or not, broken bones still need some weeks to knit. Even with only one ankle bandaged and out of commission, you will not be able to walk on your own and would therefore – yes, I _am _repeating myself – be a burden to the others."

"I would find a way not to be," the blond elf stated categorically.

"No, you will not," Elrond retorted in a similar tone of voice. "Glorfindel, under different circumstances I would let you go without a second thought. Not without worry, but without hesitation, because I _know _you. I trust you above all else, and know that you would never endanger the lives of your companions – or your own – to pursue such a kind of vengeance. I would not deny you this chance to avenge Erestor, because you know as well as I do that, secretly, I wish to do the same."

The dark haired elf narrowed his eyes somewhat, calm determination appearing on his face.  
"But I am not only your friend, but also your lord and a healer besides. I will _not _send one of my warriors into a potentially dangerous situation if he is not well enough to travel unaided! Even and especially if that warrior is you, my dearest friend and the captain of my forces."

Glorfindel nodded after a moment, lost in thought, looking as if he hadn't really expected another answer from the dark haired elf. He probably hadn't, either.  
"Is this you last word, my lord?"

"Yes," Elrond nodded firmly. "I want you to rest and heal, and once I am satisfied that you are fully restored to health, I will contemplate – and please note my special emphasis on the word 'contemplate' – sending you after them. Until then I want you to stay in this room and do what Gaerîn, Gelydhiel and the other healers tell you. Do I make myself perfectly, unequivocally, crystal clear?"

"I hear you, my lord."

"That is not what I asked, and you know that perfectly well," Elrond all but snapped, apparently having reached the limits of his patience. "I will _not _let you go so you can get yourself killed or inadvertently put the lives of the others in jeopardy! I will _not _lose another friend this week! I want your word that you will not disobey my will on this!"

For a moment it appeared as if the golden haired elf would protest once more, but then he simply exhaled slowly and bowed his head.  
"I hear your words, my lord, and I will obey them. This I swear to you by the memory of your great-grandfather whom I once called my king."

Elrond narrowed his eyes at the other elf, surveying him closely and trying to determine whether or not his friend was being completely honest with him. A part of him knew better than to trust Glorfindel easily if it concerned something like this, but the rest of him knew that his friend would never – ever – make a false oath, and especially not if he called upon the name of his great-grandfather. Glorfindel had served Turgon for many long years, he had _died _for him, for Elbereth's sake, and he would never break a vow he had sworn in his name.

"That is enough for me then," he nodded softly.

"I am glad to hear it, my lord," Glorfindel retorted, his voice completely emotionless.

"Will you stop calling me 'my lord' already!?" Elrond snapped once more. He would never understand how Glorfindel always managed to rattle him with saying the most harmless and ordinary things. "If you want to behave like a child, fine! Do so! But don't sit here and act as if I'm … as if I'm Saeros and you're Túrin, in Eru's name!"

Glorfindel only stared at him for a few moments, but then one of his eyebrows rose the tiniest bit and he gave him a slightly ironic look.  
"If there is anyone here who is like Túrin, it is most certainly you, my friend. He was one of your kin, after all."

"Does that mean that you think that I was an outlaw, ran away from home, married my own sister and did a few other rather dubious things in between?"

"You said that, not me," the golden haired elf smirked. "But please note that I always had – and still have – nothing but the highest regard for your lady wife."

"You only say that because you're afraid of her mother," Elrond pointed out, more than a little happy about the sudden change of conversational topics.

Glorfindel looked at him, a little bit incredulously, as if Elrond had just said something unbelievably stupid.  
"Everybody with a tiny bit of common sense is afraid of Celebrían's mother."

"Don't forget her father," Elrond advised him dryly.

"Hmph." Glorfindel waved his hand dismissively in a way that only a Noldo could when asked to make a statement about the Third Clan. "I've always quite liked him, in fact. He's not too bad – for a Sinda."

"Why don't you repeat that in his presence – or in his wife's." Elrond grinned suddenly. "Or in the presence of King Thranduil or in his son's."

"Yes," Glorfindel nodded with a smile, "one of these days I might actually do that and watch how the dear Thranduil suffers a stroke."

"That should be interesting to watch," the dark haired elf agreed. "Please tell me beforehand, though, so I can invite all my friends and remaining relatives of any kind and can get here on time. I would be most unhappy to miss something as fascinating and rare as that."

The other elf only nodded benevolently, and for a few moments neither of them said anything. In the end Glorfindel closed his eyes and shook his head, regret washing over his features.

"I am sorry, Elrond. I do not know what came over me. I apologise for my words."

"Don't," Elrond shook his head and smiled slightly. "I understand your reasons. I would like nothing better than to go with them and find out for myself – but I can't. I have responsibilities here, and so do you. Rushing off like this, wounded and unable to properly defend yourself, will help no one. Not me, not you and not anybody else."

"I know," the other elf admitted softly. "I am not stupid, Elrond. I know. I simply cannot bear the thought of doing nothing. I am helpless, and useless, and that is the worst combination I can possibly think of."

"I can think of another," Elrond shook his head seriously. "Dead and useless."

"Except that one maybe," Glorfindel nodded. He shook his head ruefully. "Do not worry, _hîr nín_. I have given you my word and will not defy your will on this. I bow to your judgement in this manner, however reluctantly it may be."

"I thank you, my friend," Elrond said solemnly, knowing full well how much this concession must have cost the older elf. "If you are healed enough in a week's time, I shall send you after them with a second troop. I promise."

"I am counting on it, Elrond," the blond elf nodded grimly. "I am counting on it." He fell silent for a moment before he shook his head slowly. "I have only one more question."

"Yes?" Elrond arched a dark eyebrow, immensely relieved that Glorfindel had apparently come to his senses – as much as he ever did, that was. It was about time, too; he felt as exhausted as usually only after a few hours in a council meeting or a major battle.

Glorfindel, too, arched an eyebrow, looking quite malicious.  
"Have you already told Elladan that he will remain here as well?"

Elrond's short spell of relief was shattered as quickly as it had appeared, and he glared at the golden haired elf who was looking at him with a very smug smile on his face.

"If you must know, no, I did not," Elrond grumbled reluctantly. "I was rather hoping that you would kill me so I would be able to avoid that whole problem."

"Not in this lifetime, my lord," Glorfindel shook his head firmly, the smile still firmly attached to his face. He was apparently enjoying his friend's reluctance and annoyance immensely. "Your parents-in-law would dismember me. I wish you luck. Try not to kill him."

Elrond didn't answer but merely glared at him, and when the half-elf took his leave from his still rather sullen friend a short time later, he came to the conclusion that the other elf lord had been mistaken about at least one thing.

_He_ was not the one with the vicious streak.

**  
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****  
**

He would not fall off his horse. By Eru Ilúvatar and all the Valar, but he would not.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head, focusing only on the words he had spoken about a hundred thousand times over the past few days. He would _not _fall off his horse. Falling off horses was unbefitting an elven warrior. He would _not _fall off his horse. Falling off horses was unbefitting an elven warrior. He would _not _fall off his horse…

Elvynd was brought out of his reverie when his horse stumbled slightly, having missed a tree root that was almost invisible in the gloom that surrounded them. The animal compensated quickly for the slip-up, the faltering of its gait almost unnoticeable, but its rider was jarred nonetheless, even if only so slightly. Under different, indefinitely more normal circumstances, he would not have been bothered by the sudden jolt, but now all he could do was cling to his horse's mane and do his best not to land on the ground in an ungainly heap.

It took the pain some time to die down sufficiently for him to be able to actually think something that made the remotest bit of sense, and for long moments he simply stared at the horse's neck that was moving up and down slightly with every step the animal took. In the end it receded to more bearable levels, or at least to a level to which he was accustomed by now. He had got used to quite a bit of pain lately, and in his more lucent moments he had come to the conclusion that he had never been in this much constant pain.

The pain made it in fact very hard to concentrate on anything, and that was also why these more lucent moments were not very numerous. Elvynd wasn't completely sure about it, of course, since he couldn't remember most of the past six days. There were bits and pieces, yes, but they were mostly filled with bright flashes of pain, and sadness and anger and grief. Overshadowing all these emotions, however, was one sentence, one determined, fixed thought that reverberated through his mind as rhythmically as the thrumming of his own heart: "Get to Rivendell, tell Lord Elrond what happened."

He wasn't really sure anymore just why he needed to get back home so urgently, at least not at the moment, but he wasn't about to argue with himself. Arguing with oneself was a bad idea, that was something someone had told him a long time ago. Who it had been, he couldn't say, but that didn't concern him nearly as much as it might have at any other time. He could barely remember his own name, so why should he remember something like that?

Elvynd shook his head firmly, something which he regretted almost instantly when sharp agony shot through his head, only adding to the low, throbbing pain in his body. The light dimmed once again and the world grew fuzzier around the edges, but he was used to things like that by now and was therefore not overly concerned. He was the – barely – living proof that not even elven heads reacted well to being hit by swords, and his skull had not been very co-operative of late. The dark haired elf snorted inwardly. Make that not very co-operative at all.

He was very busy trying to figure out since when the ground had started swaying back and forth (the last time he'd checked, it had been the sea or other large bodies of water that did something like that) when his horse suddenly stopped. It took him a while to realise that he was not moving anymore, but when he finally noticed it, he raised his head and gave his surroundings a surveying glare. Well, he wanted it to be a surveying glace. In reality it was more wide-eyed and confused than surveying, but it was better than nothing.

Elvynd shook his head again, ignoring the pain and the warm, sticky wetness that slowly trickled down his chest, and reached up with his left hand to wipe the sheen of sweat off his forehead. He realised that he didn't have to let go of the reins, and only now did he notice that he hadn't held them in the first place. His horse had been picking its own way for the past who-knew-how-many hours, and he hadn't even noticed.

The elven captain closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing a sudden shudder that ran through him even despite the overwhelming, stifling heat that was pressing down on him and was causing small beads of sweat to run down the sides of his face. He was no healer, but even he knew that that couldn't be good.

With a great effort, he forced himself to concentrate on the problem at hand, but no matter how much he stared at the woods around him, he could simply not see anything that could be construed dangerous in any way. The only thing that would normally cause his horse to act like this was a danger of some kind – or a chicken. His horse was the only one he knew that was terrified of chickens, a fact that had been the cause of much hilarity (not to mention annoyance and discomfort, of course) in the past.

Elvynd managed to crane his neck a little, blinking in annoyance when a strand of his long, still blood-matted hair fell into his eyes. There were no chickens on the road, and nothing else that could be likened to a fowl of any kind. The elf shook his head inwardly. He was having some trouble concentrating, he was aware of that, but this was very, very strange.

"What is it, Fuifilig?" he asked his horse softly, his voice rough and hoarse from pain and disuse. "Did you see something?"

The brown horse shook his head in what looked like annoyance, and actually turned its head to look at him. If the elf hadn't known any better, he would have thought that his horse looked at him in the exact same way his father always did when he had asked an incredibly stupid question. Elvynd smiled inwardly, careful not to move even one unnecessary muscle. As soon as he got back to Rivendell, his father would surely do more than simply look at him.

"What … is it?" he asked again, trying not to give into the very attractive urge to just get it over with and lose consciousness. "What?"

The horse merely snorted once and jerked its head to the left, or at least Elvynd thought so. His eyes travelled over the small copse of trees and the patch of green grass in the middle, and even despite the way the world was tilting from side to side and the colours were slightly off, he could see the silver, bright gleam of a small creek close to the small glade. He could not hear the running water like he ought to, but his head hurt too much for him to concern himself overly much with it.

For a while he could really not see what was going on, but then he remembered which horse he was currently sitting on. He had known Fuifilig since the horse had been nothing but a long-legged, big-eyed colt that had tried to hide behind its mother every time it had seen a chicken, and if there was one thing he had learnt, it was that the animal was rather … strange. Loyal, brave and strong, but … strange.

"No," he said as firmly as he could. "We are not stopping."

If the horse had heard him at all, it ignored him rather successfully. The animal gave him another dark look and began to trot over to what it had apparently chosen as an ideal resting spot. Ignoring its rider's protests, it began to lower itself to the ground, giving Elvynd only the choice to either dismount on his own or be squished like a bug beneath a troll's foot.

The dark haired captain managed to remove himself from the animal's back before it squashed him completely, and for a few moments he simply remained where he was, sitting on the cold ground and trying to ignore the pain that had pulsed to new life because of his sudden movements. A sudden thought flittered through his head, and he smiled with the absurdity of it all. In all these dreams he'd had as a young child, when he had imagined himself as a great warrior, he had never, _ever_, thought that, in the end, his horse would tell him what to do. Had Rochallor told Fingolfin what to do? Was Nahar telling Oromë what to do? For that fact, not even Asfaloth told Lord Glorfindel what to do!

It was just his kind of luck, the young captain thought with a weary kind of acceptance. All the mighty heroes of old – not to mention the Valar themselves – had had horses that gave them the kind of respect and obedience they deserved, and what about him? _He _was stuck with a horse that considered himself to be a mixture of Gaerîn and Lady Galadriel.

He gave the horse in question another dark look which the animal ignored completely. If he hadn't hurt so much and his head hadn't been so fuzzy, he would have been angry. Right now, however, he simply did not have the energy to do anything but stare at it. Fuifilig had always been a rather headstrong horse, and was known to make its displeasure known about anything he considered to be another of his "foolishnesses". Personally, Elvynd thought that Fuifilig was one of the most intelligent horses he had ever seen, but with that intelligence came a decidedly bossy streak that was rather unbecoming the noble steed of a brave elven warrior.

After several moments, Elvynd's smile broadened as what was left of his sense of humour awoke somewhere in his tired, torn body. This was just too ridiculous not to take with good humour, and besides, Fuifilig was right. He had been close to dropping to the ground and/or losing consciousness, something that, in his current condition, just might be enough to finish him off once and for all. And judging by the sporadic trembles that ran through the warm body at his back, the horse was tired as well. He was rather certain that the large animal wouldn't have been able to walk much farther today, even if it had wanted to, which it certainly did not.

Bright sunlight filtered through the branches over his head, and Elvynd found himself entranced by the strange patterns it painted onto the short, green grass in front of him. He felt himself drifting off to sleep again, and he had just decided to ignore the part of his mind that was still capable of reasonable thought and go ahead and lose consciousness when the horse behind him shifted slightly. A large, brown head appeared over his shoulder, and all thoughts of sleep disappeared from his mind when a very wet tongue licked the side of his face.

More awake than he had been in longer than he could remember, Elvynd reached up with his left arm to give Fuifilig a weak slap on the nose. The horse easily avoided his feeble attempt by simply retracting its head with a rather self-satisfied whinny. If there was a way for a horse to exude smug complacency, the large bay did just that.

Deciding that, if he was awake and relatively lucid already, he could just as well try and have a look at his wounds, the elf moved his arm slightly to the left, feeling for his saddle bags. He did not possess the strength to turn around and look for them properly, and so it took him a long time until he had managed to open the leather bags and find the small bag with his rapidly depleting healing utensils. Trying to ignore the stabbing pains that shot through his head and torso, he carefully let the satchel drop into his lap. It had once been soft and grey and clean, but now it was dusty, blood-stained and torn from when he had not been able to open it properly.

He searched for the long, brittle sprigs of dried athelas that should be somewhere in the small bag, but after long moments of futile searching he finally remembered that he had used all he'd had yesterday – or had it been the day before yesterday? It mattered little, he finally decided. The precious herb was gone, and that was not exactly the most positive of news. It was in fact even very bad news, that was something even someone in his befuddled and weakened state realised.

Elvynd ignored the open bag in his lap and slowly and lazily turned his attention to his right shoulder. He needed some time until he had decided whether or not to go to the time and effort to push his already open and torn shirt to the side, but in the end duty or self-preservation won out. The dark haired elf reached out and exposed the wound, instantly regretting it when he saw it in all its dubious glory.

The bandage he had so painstakingly applied some days ago had come off, and the torn flesh looked angrily red and inflamed. Now that he didn't have any more athelas, he knew that the infection which the healing herb had held in check until now would spread, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to really care. He had known that this wound would fester, he had known it from the moment a week ago when he had tried to remove the arrow that had brought him down in the battle.

Elvynd winced at the memory. He was – under normal circumstances, that was – ambidextrous and therefore more than able to remove an arrow from his own shoulder with his left hand, but this time it had not gone smoothly at all. He had been weak and shaking from blood loss and raw grief and had been barely able to see over the pounding, all-consuming pain in his head, and so the arrow had snapped before he had been able to extricate the head completely. He had been in no shape to try and cut it out and neither was he now, and so the arrowhead had remained inside his upper torso and did what arrowheads usually did when they were not removed timely: It festered.

The athelas had been enough to ensure that the pain and fever and weakness was held at bay, or at least a large part of them, but now that his supply of kingsfoil had run out, it would be only a matter of time before the infection spread once more. The young elf shrugged inwardly. He had resigned himself to the fact that this wound would most likely take his life, but he would not go without a fight, and most certainly not without warning his lord and his people.

Elvynd stared at the wound once again and at the dressing that had come loose sometime today. The blood that trickled from the hole was bright and red, and he studied it for long moments with much curiosity. It was a strange thing, he mused silently, that something of such a pretty colour could be so vital. He did not know how much of the precious fluid he had already lost over the past few days, but he did know that he would have a serious problem if the flow did not lessen soon.

'How curious,' the young captain thought dreamily, 'I almost wish that Gaerîn was here.'

He smiled inwardly. He had always liked the red-haired she-elf – even though most certainly not in the same way that Isál did – even though she possessed a rather overbearing, sometimes quite annoying attitude. What she was, however, was very pretty, and right now he could have done with a bit of sympathetic company.

Then again, he reminded himself, Gaerîn would most likely not be very sympathetic if she found him here. She would care for his wounds, certainly, but she would also lecture him on his stupidity and general recklessness, as she and her fellow healers had done on many an occasion. He had always ignored such speeches (just as he generally did his best to ignore all healers with the single exception of Lord Elrond and his sons), but Isál had ever been crestfallen, thinking that the small healer bore him a real grudge and would never speak with him again.

How stupid it would be to die like this, Elvynd thought dreamily, but without any fear at all. He would never know whether or not Isál would really marry his beloved. He would never see whether his friend would keep his word and would name his firstborn son after him, as they had promised each other some years ago. He would never get the chance to name his own son after Isál, the best and truest friend he had ever had.

And, he added, his dreamy mood being replaced by cold, seething anger, he would never get the chance to kill the humans who had slain his men.

This would not do; no, it would not do at all.

Elvynd opened his eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed and searched his bag with one hand, his right arm hanging by his side and as stiff and useless as if it'd been made of wood or stone. Taking most of his remaining bandages, he bunched them together into a small, makeshift pad and pressed them against the still bleeding wound. Pain shot through his entire upper body as he applied as much pressure as he could, but he pushed it aside as best as he could. He would not die without a fight, not here, not now, and not because of a stupid arrowhead.

It took the bleeding some time to subside, but in the end it did, aided by the constant pressure the elf kept on the wound. It took him all his energy to wrap a new bandage around his torso and fasten it, too, and after several moments of silent, pain-filled struggling Elvynd finally leaned back against his horse's warm body, gasping for breath. He would have liked to get up and get some water from the creek, but he simply did not have the strength to move.

Unconsciousness or deep sleep once again pulled at the edges of his mind, tempting him with the promise of painless, peaceful oblivion, but the dark haired captain resisted the call, even though he knew that it was only a matter of moments until his tired, hurting body would override his mind in a vain attempt to fight the fever that he could already feel burning in his veins. With an obvious effort he raised his head and scanned his surroundings, looking for any sign at all that would tell him where he was.

It was hard, and the dancing shadows the sun cast onto the dark forest floor did not make it any easier, and neither did the fact that he could barely remember how long he'd travelled today, or what the ground he'd covered had looked like. Elvynd frowned, ignoring the fact that that small movement pulled against the edges of the slowly healing cut that ran over most of the left side of his face. It should have been well on its way to healing by now, even despite the fact that the blow that had caused it had nearly split his skull in half, but it wasn't. He didn't know if it was the barely controlled infection or his general weakness, but the large cut was nearly as raw as a week ago and the headaches that had accompanied it from the start had not lessened, either.

Elvynd tore his thoughts away from this topic and did his best to gather all he knew. He was on the western banks of the Bruinen, having crossed the Mitheithel shortly after he had begun this long, tortuous journey back home. The elf shuddered at the thought. He had nearly drowned, weak and in agony as he had been, and if it hadn't been for Fuifilig's caution and steady gait, he would surely have fallen into the river and would be floating somewhere close to Andrast right now.

His frown deepened as he mentally calculated his current position. He had spent a lot of the first few days in an unconscious stupor and had travelled not nearly as far as he would have wished. The journey from Rivendell to Aberon or back took seldom longer than six days, but still he had not reached his home, even though he had left the woods where he had woken more than seven days ago. He should be close to Rivendell by now – if not in Rivendell itself – but if his eyes did not deceive him, he was still quite a bit away from his destination.

Elvynd ignored the inexplicably darkening shadows and forced his hurting brain to work. If he wasn't very much mistaken, he was close to that small oak forest to the south of the East-West-Road, the one close to the Trollshaws. It wasn't very far anymore; under normal circumstances he could get back home tomorrow morning or by midday.

The elf leaned back against his horse again, a bitter smile on his face. His horse was exhausted and he himself was already far beyond anything that could have been called exhausted. There was no way he could reach Rivendell tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow. If he was lucky, he should get there in two or three days – if he didn't succumb to the infection that was already spreading inside of him..

Elvynd clenched his teeth, both against the hopelessness and the pain. Three days – that should be doable, shouldn't it?

A small part of him merely shrugged eloquently, apparently too polite to comment, but the larger part did not really care. He was long past caring about what happened to him – if Ilúvatar saw it fit to demand his life as punishment for his inability to keep his men safe, then so be it. But what he would not do was simply sit here and wait for death, not when his goal was a mere three days' journey to the north.

The dark tendrils of unconsciousness once again reached for him when the recent blood loss and pain finally caught up with him, and he finally surrendered himself to it, trusting his horse to keep watch for the both of them. He would _not _just die here; he would survive, somehow, and be it only to warn Lord Elrond of the treachery of the humans to the south.

And if he was really, really lucky, he would live just long enough to get the chance to thrust his sword into the chest of the man who was responsible for the deaths of his warriors.

**  
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**

Legolas let his gaze wander through his room, trying to remember if there was anything else he needed to take with him.

He walked over to his bed, studying the small mountain of bags on top of it. Spare clothes, healing supplies, his bedroll, more healing supplies … yes, that should be about it. If there was one thing he had learned by now, it was that it was impossible to take too many weapons or healing supplies with you, especially when you were travelling with Aragorn and/or the twins.

The blond wood-elf nodded inwardly and took up the bags, turning around to take up his bow and quiver as well. The others would make sure they had food and water, as well as more blankets and cooking utensils. He really couldn't think of anything else, except maybe…

"More healing supplies," a dark voice behind him suggested.

Legolas was not only a prince, he was also a very experienced warrior of Mirkwood, and had therefore not been surprised to this degree in quite some time. Warriors of Mirkwood did not let their guard down so they could be surprised in the first place, and even if they did, they did not show it. Unfortunately for him, though, it was already too late for that. Even though it was highly unbefitting a warrior of Mirkwood (not the mention the Prince of Mirkwood, of course), he jumped noticeably and whirled around a moment later, one of his hands instinctively going to his chest to clutch his heart.

"Elladan!" he breathed a second later as his eyes came to rest on the heavily frowning heir of Rivendell. "Whatever was that for? What are you doing here? What are you talking about?"

Elladan's frown became even darker, and Legolas was sure that not even Sauron could have looked angrier when, back in the Second Age, he had noticed that he was missing a finger. He looked even angrier than his father had when he had realised that that group of dwarves had somehow escaped their dungeons a dozen years or so ago. Legolas shook his head inwardly. He had never thought that to be possible.

"What you are missing," Elladan spoke up again, "is more healing supplies. Two bags are not nearly enough. I would suggest a cart."

"What I need," the fair haired elf told his friend in an equally dark tone of voice, one of his hands still clutching his heart, "is another heart. If I was a man, I would be dead now."

"Lucky you aren't one, then," Elladan stated curtly. "Though I have to admit that the thought of telling _ada_ about him having a dead Prince of Mirkwood on his hands is … tempting."

There was a rather frightening, faintly serious sparkle in the older twin's eyes that Legolas did not like one bit. While he did not really think that any member of Lord Elrond's household, not to mention his family, would actually harm him, he saw no reason to tempt fate and slowly and carefully stepped back a little. When Elladan was in this kind of mood, there was no telling what he would do.

"Uhm, yes," he said nonchalantly. "It would, however, lead to all these uncomfortable things, like blood, war, pain, death and so on. You know how my father can be."

"Oh yes," Elladan nodded, looking around the room. Legolas didn't really know what he was looking for, but he was fervently hoping that it wasn't a knife or a weapon of any other kind. "When your father loses his temper, he does it with style. It would liven up things a bit though, wouldn't it?"

"Definitely," Legolas nodded as well, putting down the bags he was carrying. If he knew Elladan at all, this would take some time. "So, what are you doing here again? Do you want something, or have you simply decided to come and try to scare me?"

Elladan's glare became even darker, and he slowly began to move further into the room. The soft tapping of a wooden stick could be heard, reverberating through the spacious room, and Legolas did not miss the grimace of pain that flittered over the dark haired elf's face. Even with the help of the stick Elladan had still trouble walking unaided, which was the exact reason why Lord Elrond had forbidden him to accompany them to the human town to the south. The elven prince flinched inwardly. The resulting shouting had been loud enough to be heard fifty miles away, something that had surprised neither Legolas nor anyone else in this house. Not one warrior Legolas knew enjoyed being left behind, and Elladan seemed to like it even less than most.

The dark haired elf did not answer and merely slowly and carefully lowered himself into an armchair that was standing next to the bed, still glaring darkly at his friend. Legolas gave him a slightly incredulous look as he put the last bag back onto the bed. He then moved over to one of the small tables and brought back two goblets of wine. With a small stab of incredulous surprise he noticed that Elladan's glare had followed him the entire time.

"You do realise," he began emotionlessly while he handed Elladan his cup, "that I am not your father, don't you? There is no reason for you to sit here and plot my most gruesome demise."

If anything, Elladan's look became even darker.  
"If he weren't my lord as well as my father, I would kill him. I really would."

"No, you wouldn't," Legolas said mildly.

The other elf sighed and took a sip of the wine, as if trying to maintain his ire with that action. It was no use, though, for the anger and indignation on his face slowly faded and was replaced with weary acceptance.  
"Of course I wouldn't," he admitted. "I would have to explain it to my mother in a few years, after all."

"The Lady Celebrían is, as far as I know, a most understanding and sympathetic person," Legolas said with a small sparkle in his eyes.

"Oh yes, she is," Elladan agreed with a small, wistful smile. "But I have my doubts that her understanding would go _that _far."

"I think so, too," the fair haired elf grinned. "Females can be like that."

"It's just not fair," Elladan complained downheartedly. "I try to understand him, I really do, but I simply can't! Why does he allow you to go, and Estel, and Elrohir, and even Isál? I mean, honestly, Isál is only one step away from strangling every human he lays eyes on, and I know for a fact that Elrohir is feeling much the same. He has always liked and admired Erestor, even when he was quizzing us on the History of the Nandor or things like that. And I really don't have to say anything about you and Aragorn, do I?"

"Oh, please do," Legolas said, arching an eyebrow in either amusement or indignation.

"Well," the dark haired elf began, unperturbed, "in the very unlikely case that you hadn't noticed before: You have bad luck. You two are in fact the unluckiest people I've ever met."

"Now that is just not true."

Elladan snorted and shook his head, his mood apparently greatly improved.  
"Let me phrase it a little differently, _mellon nín_: If Aragorn and you were taking a little cruise on a completely safe and peaceful lake, like, for example, Lórellin in Valinor, you would manage to sink the boat, get attacked by a sea monster, nearly drown, get revived by some evil megalomaniac and finally be cut into ribbons by a crazy sadist who wants to kill you slowly and painfully. And all that in the span of a few hours."

"I resent that implication," Legolas huffed, trying his best to ignore the part of him that was nodding furiously at the older twin's words. "We are perfectly able to going somewhere without getting into trouble."

Elladan simply threw back his head and laughed, something that filled the younger elf with quite a bit of indignation. It was nice to see that Elladan was recovering from his bad mood, but if there was one thing Legolas couldn't stand, it was being laughed at or patronised.

"Oh," Elladan finally gasped, unfazed by the dark look on the elven prince's face, "I have to tell Elrohir about this. This is the funniest thing someone has said to me in a long time. Ah," he held up a hand when Legolas wanted to say something, "be reasonable and don't bother to protest. Everybody knows about your ability to get yourselves – and everybody who is reckless enough to accompany you – into trouble. I, on the other hand, am more than capable of looking after myself. I just can't understand why _ada _would let you go and keep me here!"

"Elladan," Legolas began slowly, arching his eyebrows incredulously, "You can't walk."

"That's the whole point!" The other elf threw up his hands, nearly spilling his wine onto the white sheets of the bed next to him. "I don't need to be able to walk to be able to ride!"

"Now who is being unreasonable?" Legolas asked, clearly amused. "I truly hadn't thought that I would ever need to give you lessons in this at some point, but I really think you should try and remember that it is not possible to ride with a cracked hipbone. Not if you don't want to spend the entire journey in agony, that is."

"That would be my business, not yours or anyone else's," Elladan all but snapped. "I'd rather be in pain and of help than here and useless!"

Legolas would almost have covered his face with his hands, but then he settled for merely rolling his eyes. He didn't know where Aragorn and Elrohir were at the moment (probably in the courtyard, annoying the horses and every single elf present), but he fervently wished they would show their faces, _now_. They had a lot more experience dealing with an annoyed, unreasonable Elladan.

"You won't help us if you are in pain and unable to walk," he protested in a long-suffering tone of voice. "Now stop talking such nonsense! What do you mean, it is none of my business? I am your friend, so it is very well my business! I understand how you feel, but you are not the first person to be left behind. I never enjoyed it either, by the Valar, nobody does, but you know as well as I do that your father does not do this just for spite or to annoy you! He is worried about you, yes, but he is also the best healer I have ever seen in my entire life. He knows your limits as well as you do, and if he says that you cannot make this journey, then you cannot! If you weren't as stubborn as a bone-headed mule you would admit that I'm right, and you know that perfectly well, too."

Elladan glared at him some more, but Legolas wasn't very impressed. Granted, Elladan's _look _was almost as fearsome as Lord Elrond's, but he'd had more than 2500 years experience of being glared at by various people. Besides, out of reasons he couldn't possibly hope to fathom, Aragorn's version of his adoptive father's look was far more impressive. He would never understand how it was possible that a mere man, elven blood or not, could reproduce Lord Elrond's _look _of death, doom and pain better than said elf lord's own sons, but he had stopped wondering about it. There were various things he didn't understand about the Second People, and this was simply one of many.

The dark haired elf finally stopped looking at him as if he was an infuriatingly idiotic child who had annoyed him for two hours on end and shook his head.  
"You really are overdoing the whole mule thing lately, did you know that?"

"Yes," Legolas nodded calmly. "I am planning to switch to another joke tomorrow. One shouldn't overstay one's welcome, after all, figuratively speaking."

"Oh, yes, figuratively speaking," Elladan nodded as well with an ironic tilt of his head. "I am sure you meant it purely metaphorically, my friend."

Legolas merely grinned at him and put down his cup, moving to pick up his bags once again, and the dark haired elf quickly leaned forward and grasped his forearm before he could get up or leave the room.  
"Will you grant me a favour, Legolas?"

The wood-elf frowned slightly as he looked at the other elf.  
"We have been friends for more than two thousand years, Elladan. Do you really have to ask?"

"This time I might have to, for I would not simply ask you to do something that might endanger your life," Elladan said seriously, one of his hands unconsciously playing with the hilt of the stick that was leaning against his armchair.

"You would never ask me to endanger anyone's life needlessly," Legolas shook his head, concern creeping into his eyes. "You _peredhil _might be incredibly thick-headed, but you are not stupid. What is it I can do for you, my friend?"

Elladan lowered his eyes, and for a moment Legolas actually thought that he was blushing slightly. He quickly discarded that thought, though. Elven warriors did not blush, after all.  
"I know that it sounds silly, I guess, but … will you look after Elrohir for me? I would ask Aragorn, but he still has that broken wrist of his to worry about and besides, he couldn't look after someone else to safe his life. He's always too busy getting almost killed."

Legolas smiled and placed a reassuring hand on his friend's forearm.  
"You know I will look after them," he told the older elf seriously. "You and I both know that things do not always go as planned, but as long as I am able, I will ensure that no harm will come to your brothers, and so will Isál and his men. You have my word on this."

The older twin looked at him for a few moments before he inclined his head minutely.  
"Thank you, _mellon nín_. If Elrohir knew that I asked this of you, he would skin me alive for it, but I cannot help but worry. I cannot even remember the last time one of us went off on a potentially dangerous mission and the other stayed behind. I have become used to … well, to always being there. For him, and for Estel as well."

"I understand," the elven prince assured the other. "Trust me, I do. I swear to you by the One himself that I will do all I can to return your brothers to you safe and in one piece."

"I am in your debt, then," Elladan announced as he slowly stood to his feet and gingerly placed his left foot on the ground. "I will not forget it."

"You are no such thing," Legolas shook his head as he shouldered his bags and took up his quiver. "You are my friend, Elladan. You owe me nothing, and never will."

"I beg to differ," the dark haired elf said calmly, sounding utterly serious. "I owe you thanks and gratitude for the lives of my brothers – both of them, mind you! – over and over and more times than I can count. I couldn't repay you in a thousand years, even if I tried."

"Then don't," Legolas advised him, feeling suddenly self-conscious and rather uncomfortable. "Will you accompany me to the courtyard and see us off?"

"Of course I will," Elladan nodded, allowing the fair haired elf to change the topic. "It would be most rude to let you ride off into danger and doom without saying good-bye, wouldn't it?"

"I would think so," the other elf grinned and waited for him to precede him. "Your father will be there, too, I think. You'll be able to glare at him for a change."

"I already did that for the entire morning," Elladan grumbled while they slowly moved into the direction of the door. "He was less than impressed."

"I couldn't imagine why," Legolas said, dead-pan, ignoring the dark look Elladan gave him. "There is a positive side of it, though."

"Oh?" Elladan stopped and arched an eyebrow. "There is?"

"Of course," the elven prince affirmed. "You'll be able to spend some time with Glorfindel. I'm sure he would appreciate the company."

Elladan simply stared at him, obviously too stunned to say anything, and Legolas couldn't even blame him. He, too, had seen the golden haired elf lord's face earlier today. He seriously doubted that Glorfindel would appreciate anyone's company at the moment.

"You are a cruel person," Elladan declared finally and shook his head as they stepped over the threshold of the room.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"And evil."

"Ah yes. That, too."

"And malevolent."

"You don't say."

Elladan sighed and finally gave up, doing his best to ignore the blond elf's smug look. He might be an insufferable wood-elf and more than half-crazy (he was, after all, going on this harebrained mission!), but he was also one of the bravest and most loyal beings he had ever met in his life. He would keep his word, no matter what happened.

Somehow, the twin thought darkly to himself while he slowly limped into the direction of the courtyard, he had the very uncomfortable feeling that he would need to do so, too.

It was a feeling he didn't enjoy at all.

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TBC...

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_yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
hîr nín (S.) - my lord  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
mellon nín - my friend  
peredhil (pl. of peredhel) (S.) - half-elves_

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Ah, and the by now familiar doom once again makes an appearance! Let's welcome it back with a bit of applause! •applauds fervently• Alriiiight, ignore me. Too much sugar, or caffeine. •g• Anyway, the next chapter will be here in another week - yes, I AM planning to actually keep to this update rhythm for a while. I'll do what I can, at least until February when I'm having a few written exams. Let's just not talk about that now, okay? Reviews help me get the chapters out on time (really, they do! •g•), and they also make me happy and cheerful. So, review? Yes, please! •g•

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**Additional A/N:**

**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure -** LOL, the positive thing about sticks is that they come from trees, huh? Interesting way of interpreting the whole thing... •g• I agree, though. Stoning would be a lot worse. Just like in the Life of Brian. •g• So you got the ROTK EE too, eh? Life's just not fair, I guess... •pouts• It's great to hear that you enjoyed Christmas. Thanks a lot, again, for all your reviews! •huggles•  
**JMercuryuk -** •shakes head• Just WHY is everyone assuming that I will torture Erestor? I mean, honestly, I never... •trails off• Okay, you're right. I'm evil, of course I'll torture him. I don't really know when the 'serious' torture will begin, but I'd say something like Ch. 17 or 18. No guarantees, though. You're quite right, of course, Glorfindel will in fact not be joining them, and he won't run off either. He's not quite that insane or immature. •g• You really had a dream like that? That sounds ... interesting. I'm sure Freud would have a field day with it... •g• Thanks a lot for taking the time to review! I love reviews! •grins broadly•  
**Ithiliel Silverguill -** •g• Yeah, I figure you wouldn't be. Nothing I can do though, sorry. Tuesday is a horrible day for me, and when I get back home at around 11 pm all I can do is stare mindlessly into nothing. Usually. •g• So your favourite characters are Glorfindel and Erestor, huh? Very understandable if you ask me, since they're absolutely adorable! •huggles elf lords• Yes, you are! Thank you for all your kind words; it's great to hear that you're enjoying this weird little tale!  
**Tiryns -** Yes, that's what Glorfindel will have to do - kind of, that is. Yes, I love being mean and vague. •g• Your guess is very good, btw. It's indeed going to be that kind of rescue party - which means they're doomed, of course. Legolas and Aragorn ALWAYS get into trouble, don't they? •g• Elladan will indeed have to sit this one out - more or less, that is. Yes, I AM evil! •evil cackle•  
**HarryEstel -** Hmm, let me see... When is Elvynd getting back to Imladris? Not before ch. 17, I'm afraid, and maybe even later than that. I'm not completely certain about that at the moment. And I'm rather sure that Erestor will understand the twins, Aragorn and Legolas better now! Not really something to be happy about, I guess, but still... •g•  
**Alilacia -** ROFL! An elf, huh? Oh, please, you've GOT to send my a piccture! I would simply LOVE to see you dressed up as an elf! After that you may burn all photos, but I really want to see that! •g• Ah yes, indeed, if all all else fails resort to violence. That's my motto, I think. And the most disconcerting thing is that it actually works! •g• So the EE really IS sad, huh? I don't think I'll see it, then. I cry rather easily, which is VERY embarassing. I cried when Draco in Dragonheart died, when Boromir died (and I hate him, and Sean Bean even more!), heck, I even almost cried when Hephaistion died in Alexander. Well, not really, since I was laughing at Alexander who was too busy talking to notice that his lover/friend/advisor/soulmate/whatever was dying behind him. But that was an exception. •g•  
**Aratfeniel - **Nah, you're probably right. No one really LIKES it to have elves extremely angry at them. No one who is more or less sane, that is. Oh, wait, Gasur's not sane, so I guess he doesn't count. •g• Good for him. Or bad, we'll see soon enough.  
**Tineryn -** •buries head in hands• I just KNEW you would ask that. It was like an invitation, wasn't it? And I have to admit that no, I have no idea how Imladris' bathrooms worked, where they were and if it even had bathrooms. You'd have to ask Elrond; he designed the place after all. •g• And don't worry about Glorfindel. He'll get his chance to be cute and upset and mad as hell. I promise. •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan -** Oh yes, me too! Nothing and no one will stop me from getting that DVD! It's only a matter of time! Mhahahaha! •evil cackle, Dr. Evil style• Ah well, ignore me. It's late. •g• LOL, Glorfindel the rage-aholic, huh? That IS rather interesting.... •g• Oh, and I know what you mean. Sometimes brains can be really annoying, can't they? Thinking they can tell you what to do and so on... •shakes head• Just ignore it, I say. It will give up - eventually. •g•  
**Crippled Raven - **LOL, what? "...now Mr. Orc, did you or did you not brutally murder these elves?" OMG, I can't breathe.... •wipes tears out of her eyes• Jeez, that was hilarious. I can just imagine it: An old library, a fire going in the hearth, Miss Marple and shuffling orcs that try not to look at her... •g• Ah, very nice. And you're right, Erestor IS overdoing the whole "Let me tell you what your problem is, Evil-man-whom-I-despise"-thing. It's funny, though. •evil grin• You really are quite strange, did you know that? Glorfindel in a wheelchair? Or on crutches? I really don't know from where you get these ideas... •g• Oh, temp files are temporary files that are usually deleted once an application closes. They will remain, however, when the software is poorly written, or when the system crashes. They can only help you when you have selected autosave. Once you restart Windows (XP, that is), you can restore the last document you had been working on. It's of no use when you hadn't saved to begin with. My Windows automatically saves every minute. Yes, I AM overcautious. Windows 98 is tricky though, and an evil thing from hell. Just in case you didn't know. •g• Oh, and I wouldn't spend any money on Alexander. It's amusing, yes, but certainly not worth 3 or 4 pounds or something like that. I'd rent the DVD in a few months and have a good laugh then. •g• And DON'T get me started on Troy! What were they THINKING? Those sculptures, and vases, and architecture! 1200 BC, huh? Hah, I don't think so! Not to mention the abysmal plot, of course... •walks off grumbling under her breath•  
**Red Tigress -** Yeah, my grandmother is a little strange sometimes. She's 80 though, so she has the right to be as strange as she wants to be. •g• You're right btw. That's what fanfiction is for! You can never get enough angst, no, precious, you cannot... •g•  
**Lynn-G -** Hmm, I'm not supposed to kill him? I don't know ... killing elves is fun! Lots and lots of fun... •evil grin• But I'll think about it, I promise. Maybe I won't kill them after all. Maybe. •g• I have to agree, though, Glorfindel is NOT a happy camper. It's understandable, I guess. •pats elf lord• Poor baby. •g•  
**Elvingirl3737 -** •g• Well, I thought Elrond deserved to have a little fun as well. Being mean and scary and intimidating is always relaxing.... •g• Now that you mention it, though, I think Erestor needs both the hug and the medical attention. Urgently. •evil grin• •wide-eyed• You watched all 3 of them? Jeez, that's impressive? I think I would have given up after the second one ... then again, probably not. We're all freaks here, I guess. •g• And OF course you have no idea why Estel was looking so ... disheveled. •shakes head disapprovingly• The poor boy is STILL having nightmares! •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel -** I hope you didn't laugh too much in your father's office. He might think you're a little strange ... it's just a possibility, of course! •g• It's nice to see that you've enjoyed the whole Glorfindel-falling-down-a-hill-thing so much. Nice, but rather evil. •g• Ha, now I know your name! (a nice one, btw) Don't ask me why that's important, I don't know why either. Yes, I am insane. And don't worry, I am not planning to kill Celylith. Any time soon, that is. •evil grin• Oh, and don't worry. I can't raise only one eyebrow either. My sister can, though, may she rot in hell for it!! •shakes fists• I would like to be able to do that, too, in case you hadn't noticed. •g• Gasur doesn't hate the •word• elf, he hates •elves•. And I will tell you why, but later. It would ruin all my fun. Yes, I AM looking very much forward to that part. •g• And I agree with you: Hurting Erestor is just plain wrong. Lots of fun, though. •g• Thanks a lot for the huge reviews! •huggles•  
**Elvendancer -** •g• No, Elvynd is indeed not dead, at least not right now. I really have no idea why everybody thought I'd killed him. •innocent smile• You're quite right though, Tibron IS to be pitied. It's not even his fault, and he isn't lying either. He doesn't know any better, poor thing. •g•  
**Viggomaniac -** Yes, I kind of noticed that most of you guys really liked Cuilthen. He was quite sweet, too, but it would have been unreasonable only to kill the "not-so-nice" guys. Oh, and my alter ego wanted to kill him, yes. •g• LOL, of course you wouldn't want to influence me. I do tend to let myself influenced by my readers' ideas and suggestions, so you are very welcome to let me know about both. I have to ask what exactly "special Aragorn moments" are, though. I have to admit that I'm not completely sure about it. If you mean angst, I think it's safe to say that there will be a few (okay, quite a few) in future chapters. Promise. •g•  
**Alisha B -** Alisha ... Alisha.... •thinks• •thinks some more• Well, I have to admit that I don't really remember you... •g• No, j/k! OF COURSE I remember you! •huggles• Welcome back! I did wonder where you were, more than once actually... I hope you dealt with those "medical issues" you mentioned. Being sick is never fun. •shudders• LOL, "unique torture methods", huh? I guess you could indeed say that. I (with Jack's help) am already working on new and inventive way of making our favourite characters' lives miserable, never fear. •evil grin• •beams• Someone noticed! I am really trying to make the older elves appear more mature, responsible and so on (which is why Glorfindel would never "run off" or anything like that), it's great that it's at least a bit noticeable. Thanks! •huggles again• My computer does that all the time, too. Eating reviews, reports, papers, emails ... you name it. Everything that's even the tiniest bit important. •g• Once again, it's great "seeing" you again, thanks a lot for reviewing! •huggles for the third time• Okay, that's it. No more hugs, don't worry. •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway -** I can't blame you. The movie is rather laughable. Don't spend any money on it. I'm just going to guess that the "Rose Bowl" is a sporting event of some kind. I have to admit that I've never heard about it, but it sounds like football. Or baseball, or ice hockey or something like that. So your team lost, huh? Sorry about that. And the "thin ice" thing was indeed meant mataphorically. More or less at least. I think. Most of the time not even I am too sure about what I actually meant. •g• Great you still like this, and thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**KLMeri -** If I were Elrond, I would have a headache, too. A horrible headache. •g• Poor elf lord. Elladan should indeed have stayed off that hip of his, but since when is he actually doing what he SHOULD be doing? •shakes head• Stupid elf. I guess Gasur consideres •especially• the truth an insult. Stupid people like him are like that. Oh, and don't worry. I won't let them damage Erestor ... too much, that is. He'll be fine in the end - or will he? Mhahaha! •runs off cackling evilly•  
**Marbienl -** Nah, I didn't try it yet. It's mainly because I have been doing nothing BUT eat these past days. First for three days on Christmas, then on the 31. and the 1., and today is my sister's birthday. I just can't stop! •shakes head• I'm pathetic... •g• It took me a while to find Glorfindel, but I think he doesn't look too bad. Too young and not golden haired enough, but it could have been worse. Look at Celeborn (beautiful, eh? Hah!) or Haldir (I'm not touching this one...). Tibron doesn't even knowhow many elves were buried, or that orcs were not responsible. He's rather clueless, poor man that he is. •g• Great you like Aberon's kittens, though. They're quite sweet. And I have no idea if Elrond or any other elf knew how to communicate telepathically. Galadriel might know how to do it (she IS creepy, after all), but since Tolkien never mentioned something like it - as far as I know, if you disregard Glaurung - I'm not going there. I don't like to "invent" such things - you know me and canon. •g• Oh, and Celylith is definitely not going to find Elvynd. Elvynd is coming from the south, while Celylith is coming from the east. There's no chance of them meeting, sorry. I regretted Halbarad's death, too, even though I have to admit that I never liked Theoden. And Seobryn ... I am right now planning to put him into the next story. Maybe. We'll see. •g•  
**LittleAdryan -** Don't worry about reviewing. I know how stressful school and college can be. You should concentrate on that right now, that's much more important. Less fun, but more important. •g• It's great to hear that you're still enjoying my insane stories, thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**Washow -** Ah yes. That. •winces• •tries to look innocent• •fails spectacularly• I do realise that Cuilthen was rather popular (something that did surprise me a bit, to be honest), but there was really nothing I could do. It was either that or be annoyed by my alter ego for months. I'd like to keep the rest of ma sanity, thank you very much. •g• I hope you're not too cross - eating lots of chocolate sounds like a very good idea. Thanks for your review!  
**Golden Elf -** •frowns• But ... but I didn't do anything serious to Glorfindel! I mean, yes, there was that bit with Glamir and his whips, and that little near-execution thing, but other than that... •trails off• In comparison to what I do to the other characters, that wasn't too bad, was it? •g• But you're right, I think. Glorfindel wouldn't be too happy to find Erestor half-dead. He's funny like that. •g• I am truly glad that I did not kill Elvynd, then. I really do like my computer, and if it were to be hit by lightning.... •shudders• What a horrible thought! •blushes• Thank you! It's great to hear that you like this story so far - I really hope you'll enjoy the rest as well! Thank you very much for taking the time to review!  
**Katie -** Yes, indeed. Bad Katie! Forgetting to review, really... •shakes head• Bad Katie. •g• J/k. I'm sure you have lots of other things on your mind. And Erestor is probably indeed not too often faced with situations such as this one. Lucky him! •g• Let's just hope his system gets used to it before he gets a heart attack or something like that... •g• I like the idea of the healers sitting on Glorfindel. I'm sure Gaerîn would have lots of fun doing it! Then again, she IS slightly evil... •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing -** A very Happy New Year to you too! I hope you didn't blow yourself up or got hugged by many people at midnight. •g• That would have been rather inconvenient. •g• I hope your bed is nice and pretty now. Yes, I AM slightly insane. Pay me no heed. •g•

**Alright, I'm off now. It's my sister's birthday - she's turning 18 already, I can't believe it myself! - and there's a huge piece of cake with my name on it! •g• **


	16. A Faint Cold Fear

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

•g• Yeah, I kind of missed it, too. The doom, that is. I like doom. Not nearly as much as Elrond, I guess, but then again, no one does. •g• I am also very glad that you're not too angry with me for separating the twins. I just thought that it was rather monotonous that the two of them are always together. I mean, come on, they're not joined at the hip! It's much more fun to actually have one of them stay behind for once - and much more evil, too, but that's totally beside the point. •evil grin•

It has also been brought to my attention that, out of reasons I cannot possibly imagine, some people are of the opinion that something called Aragorn/Legolas "torture" or "angst" or variations of the above will occur soon. I must of course tell you that NO such thing will be happening. You know me. I only like to write about flowers, fluffy little animals and things like that. •g• Hypothetically speaking, however, IF I were such a mean person who would actually know what the word "torture" means (which I don't, of course •g•), it would most likely occur in a few chapters. Around chapter 20, I'd say. Now don't get me wrong, I am not promising anything. I know you people by now. It's only an educated guess, nothing more.

Fine, so there's no torture in here, at least no real torture. We see Reod again (the other captain and Gasur's colleague) who comes to realise several things he doesn't like all that much and Acalith makes a short appearance and proves to be quite ruthless (no surprise here, I know). Legolas and Aragorn have a discussion that turned out to be quite a bit more depressing than I wanted it to be, and we have that little thing at the end. Ah, yes, a cliffy, that's what you call it. •g•

Have fun and review, please!**  
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**Chapter 16 

It had been ten days, Reod thought, not really knowing whether he should feel surprised or not. No one had expected the elf to sit back and actually co-operate, but the dark haired being's single-minded determination was beginning to grate on everyone's nerves.

And especially on Gasur's nerves.

If one really looked closely at it, though, the elf wasn't only getting on Gasur's nerves. He was very close to causing the dark haired captain a heart attack, or maybe a stroke of some kind. Which was rather interesting, Reod admitted to himself, especially since the elf had stopped talking to anyone. All he did was stare at you in a cold, contemptuous, arrogant way that left little to no doubts in your mind that he would kill you once he got even the smallest chance.

Reod grinned openly while he slowly walked down the stairs that led to the part of the cellar that now served as something like a dungeon. He would pay any amount of money to have been there when the elf had told Gasur that he was an angry, frustrated, pathetic excuse for a human being. He was well aware of the fact that every rumour grew larger and larger with every second it was being passed on from one person to the next, but even the very first version he had heard had been very impressive.

The brown haired man's grin widened. Oh, how he would have enjoyed hearing that! He was rather sure that the elf had paid for his words, even paid dearly if he knew Gasur at all, but he would most certainly have appreciated the obnoxious being's sacrifice. He – along with most officers in Lady Acalith's service – had always wanted to tell Gasur these things (or even only one or two of them), but he had never found either the right opportunity nor reached a sufficiently suicidal state of mind. The elf was either a lot more courageous than he could ever be or long past caring about what would happen to him.

He could not really fathom such an attitude because he was very attached to life and the general place his head was occupying at the moment, but he had come to accept a few things in the past week or so. One was that Gasur was a lot crazier than he had always thought (which was rather remarkable now that he thought about it), and another was that elves were not normal. It was as simple as that.

Normal beings didn't bear this kind of treatment without looking worse for wear. Granted, the elf bruised only a little harder than most men, but he healed a lot more quickly. Lack of food and water seemed to only slightly annoy him, and if he found the cold, damp room in any way uncomfortable or inconvenient, he certainly did not show it. The only thing that had changed over the past nine or ten days was the fact that, if anything, the dark haired being had become only angrier.

Reod tried to suppress an involuntary shudder of apprehension or anxiety. He had never met anyone who was more capable of making you feel small, insignificant, stupid and not to mention doomed by raising only one eyebrow. His feelings for the older race had not changed in the least over the past few days – at least not positively. He didn't really hate them, not even now, but he did not like them either, and especially not "their" elf.

No, it was not that, the chestnut haired man shook his head inwardly. He loathed to admit it, even to himself, but he was afraid of this elf, of him and all the others of his kind. They were too aloof, too arrogant and too removed from what was happening around them. Such behaviour was unbefitting any person he could think of, with the possible exception of the Gods themselves. And while he wasn't certain about many things that concerned the Fair Folk, he _was _rather sure that they were no Gods.

The dark haired captain was brought out of his thoughts when he realised that he had reached his destination. He had descended the stairs and followed the corridor that led to the remotest part of the cellars without even noticing it, something that was a testament both to his familiarity with this house and his preoccupied state of mind. One usually didn't get very far with such an attitude in Lady Acalith's service, especially when you were working with people as mad and power-hungry as Captain Gasur or Salir.

The two guards standing left and right of the heavy wooden door were too startled to notice his preoccupation, however, and even if they had, they would have been too intelligent to comment on it. Well, Reod amended quickly after looking at the two of them, make that too experienced to comment on it.

"Captain Reod," one of the two nodded his head while both of them gave their superior a hasty salute.

Reod quickly searched his mind for the soldier's name, but then he decided that he really couldn't be bothered. He didn't care overly much for the men under his command, and knew for a fact that they didn't love him either. All he demanded from them was their respect and obedience, and if both things were mutually exclusive, he'd always settled for obedience. He grinned inwardly. He actually liked it when some smart lad thought he could talk back to him. In the end, all of them obeyed his orders, and making the troublemakers regret their actions was possibly the most enjoyable part of his duties.

"Open the door," he commanded curtly.

The two guards exchanged a quick look before the older man frowned at him, apparently thinking hard to find the right words.  
"Captain Gasur ordered us not to let anyone…"

"Captain Gasur," Reod stressed his colleague's name, "is not the senior captain here. _I _am. And I am ordering you to open this door, now."

"But…" the man tried again.

"But nothing," the brown haired captain said calmly, not bothering to mask the rising annoyance and anger he felt. "Captain Gasur has his reasons, I'm sure, but so do I. I have orders from our lady herself – would you like to question that?" The two men looked at each other, still rather indecisive which spoke volumes about their fear of for the younger captain, and so Reod added, darkly and completely seriously, "Carry out my order, Soldiers, or I swear to you by all the Gods above that I will open it myself and make sure that you are in the room before I close it again. I am sure the elf would be delighted about some company."

Reod would never know whether it was fear of his threat or deeply instilled obedience that finally drove the guards to heed his orders, but he didn't care overly much either way. A moment later the two men had stepped aside, the older one had dug a single large key out of a pouch at his belt and thrust it into the lock. The sound of grinding metal echoed loudly in the dark haired captain's ears as the key was turned, and with a final screech that sounded vaguely like a wounded animal the door swung finally open, revealing the small, bare room Reod had seen so many times in the past.

The man gave the two guards a last cold look before he took a step forward, careful not to come too close to the motionless figure on the floor. He knew roughly how far the chains would allow a prisoner to go, and the last thing he wanted was to have an angry elf at his throat who was trying to choke him.

At first Reod thought that this might be a precaution, but no more than that. The dim light that filtered into the dark room was just enough to sufficiently illuminate the elf's still figure, and for long moments the man thought that the elf was unconscious. His eyes were closed, and what was visible of his bruised and cut body was so utterly still and motionless that he might as well have been dead.

Just when Reod was thinking about a way of waking him up without coming too close to him the elf's eyes opened, so quickly and without any warning at all that he simply could not have been unconscious or asleep. There was surprise in the dark grey eyes that were revealed, even if only of the rather disinterested kind, before the familiar mixture of hatred, loathing and cold menace once again reasserted itself. Reod suppressed a small shudder. He understood why several men were firmly convinced that this being could read their thoughts. That look was … disconcerting, to say the least.

"I come from my Lady Acalith," the man finally said, not really knowing how he should formulate the young woman's question.

The elf merely arched an eyebrow at him, something that lost a bit of its effect due to the blood and grime that coated most of the one side of his face. Reod's men had really had their fun, Reod thought dispassionately. There was not much visible of the elf that wasn't bruised, cut or injured in another kind, and if there was more than a square foot of un-ripped and undamaged clothing on him, he certainly could not see it.

The silence stretched between them, filling the cold, dreary space of the cell like a living, breathing thing, and Reod shook his head inwardly. If this elf acted like this when Gasur was around, it was a major miracle that he was still alive. If there was one thing Gasur didn't like, it was when someone didn't answer his questions or stared at him for a prolonged amount of time. It made him, he thought ironically, very, very angry.

"Are you willing to co-operate with us, or will you insist on continuing to be stupid and stubborn?" Reod asked when it became obvious that the elf did not intend to say anything.

The elf looked at him again, something that might have been amusement dancing in the calm grey depths of his eyes before the hatred and distaste made a reappearance. Still he made no move to answer, and Reod took a deep breath, vainly battling against the annoyance and anger that was right now blossoming into full-blown fury. He was in _no _mood for this.

Lashing out with a booted foot, Reod managed to hit the elf's knee, right below the kneecap. It was a blow that usually caused the recipient to scream in pain – or, in the very least, moan softly – but all the elf did was go even whiter and more wide-eyed. He couldn't suppress the reflex to draw back his leg, though, something that deeply satisfied Reod and also made the elf appear more … human, for a lack of better word. Reod pushed that thought aside. Elves were not human, and could not hope to be human even if they tried.

"I am not my colleague, elf, but I have neither the time nor the patience for games like these," Reod informed the elf, trying to ignore the cold glare the other being was giving him. "My lady has asked you a question. What is your answer?"

For a few moments, the elf's expression did not change in the slightest, but then he began to smile broadly, as if Reod's words had been a particularly funny joke that only he could understand. Reod felt how his dark mood became even darker. It appeared that he and Gasur had one thing in common, after all: He did not like it when people did not answer him, and being laughed at was nothing he enjoyed overly much, either.

"What are you laughing at, elf?"

Erestor did not answer immediately, his bruised features still creased in a broad smile. After a second he shook his head, doing his best to ignore the pounding headache which he had aggravated with such an unwise movement.

"I must thank you, human," he finally said in an even, calm voice. "You and your companions remind me of times long past. Of times when my people were still using some rather interesting titles for your kind. For that is what you and your men are, the Sickly and the Self-cursed, the Heavy-handed and the Night-fearers. You are nothing but scared, ignorant, cruel children, all of you." He smiled again. "Those were good times. More honest times."

Reod didn't really understand what the elf was saying, but he had lived long enough to know when he was being insulted. He pushed aside the urge to teach this elf a lesson which was most clearly desperately needed and clenched his teeth, looking at the dark haired elf with barely controlled anger.  
"Your answer, elf."

"You have my answer."

The elf's words cut through the silence of the room, hard and unyielding like stone and as fierce as the grey fire that was burning in his eyes. Reod could do nothing but stare, and for the first time he thought that maybe, just maybe of course, this one simply wouldn't talk. He shook his head inwardly a moment later. Everybody talked after a few days, and especially when he was being … encouraged by Gasur.

"I have given you my answer ten days ago," Erestor went on, calm determination and unchecked fury on his face. "I have given it to your lady then, and I will give it to you now: Nothing will you learn from me, nothing at all. My answer stands, and will not change because of that boy you send here day after day."

Reod made the mental note to mention to Gasur that the elf had just called him a boy – something that would undoubtedly make the other captain very, _very _angry – but then he realised what the dark haired being had just said. It wasn't that he was really surprised by the elf's answer, he would in fact have been surprised if he had said anything else, but a part of him was still a little astonished. Not even an elf could be this stupid, could he? Even someone as aloof and apparently suicidal as he should realise what this kind of answer meant.

Then again, he shook his head inwardly, if this elf wanted to commit suicide, he was very welcome to do so. He was not really interested in whether or not he wanted to co-operate with them (even though the latter would mean that his lady would be in a bad mood for at least half a year), but he was no Gasur, either. He did not like inflicting pain on other people, not overly much anyway, and something that might have been pity stirred inside of him. He quickly shook his head. None of this was his problem.

"Do you realise that you are being stupid?" Reod asked, more curious than angry.

"Do _you _realise that _all _of you are being _extremely _stupid?" the elf countered readily.

Reod took a deep breath, reminded himself that he was not Gasur and would not lose his temper and simply turned around. He had better things to do than mince words with this stubborn creature. No one could say that he hadn't given him a real chance to do the reasonable thing – exactly one more chance than he had deserved.

Even though he did not turn back around while he walked out of the cell, he could feel the dark haired elf's eyes on him, boring invisible holes into the back of his tunic. Once again the captain had to suppress an involuntary shudder. How anyone could cope with these proud, insufferably arrogant and aloof beings was beyond him. Spending one minute in this one's company was enough for him to almost make him forget all his rather neutral intentions. Then again, he thought wryly, the elf had had to deal with Gasur and his men this past week or so. That was a very good reason to behave like this.

The door closed behind him, and Reod would almost have sighed aloud in relief. He could nearly feel how the eye contact was interrupted; it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off his back. The man straightened his shoulders unwittingly. He would not return to this cell if he could help it at all. The older guard locked the heavy wooden door behind him, and before one of the two soldiers could say something that would undoubtedly have worsened his mood even more, he hurried down the corridor, into the direction of the main staircase.

He did not meet anyone for several moments, not even a single servant that was walking down the hallway in search for a special wine or some other kind of food or drink, and it actually took him some time to remember that it was already quite late at night. Most of the servants had already been sent to their quarters, and only the small, personal staff of Lady Acalith would still be up and around. And all of them knew better than to stray too far from their mistress. Lady Acalith could become rather … upset when she desired something and no one was there to ensure that she got it, too.

Reod climbed the last step and turned to the right, into the direction of Lady Acalith's study. Now there were a few more people to be seen, mainly guards on the way to their changing of the guard or scribes that were still working on some document or report or other. The brown haired captain even encountered a councilman or two, both of whom he greeted respectfully, and only now did he realise that the seneschal, Salir, would most likely also be present at the meeting which he was about to attend.

He rolled his eyes inwardly. If there was one thing he had no patience for today, it was Salir (he couldn't really bring himself to call him 'Lord' Salir) and his incessant, annoying scheming. The old seneschal might have a healthy amount of respect for their lady or might even fear her, but he was also shrewd and reckless. Those who got into the way of his plans and ambitions usually did not live long enough to sufficiently regret the error of their ways, and Reod knew from experience that even a single slip of the tongue could be enough to earn yourself the seneschal's enmity. He sighed softly. He really was in _no _mood for this.

If he had thought that his mood had been bad before, it dropped to new, abysmal levels when he finally reached the door and, after nodding at the guards and knocking, opened it with as much dutiful enthusiasm as he could muster at this hour. It took him only a second to survey the room, and only another one to prevent his jaw from dropping onto his chest. What in the name of all the Gods was _Gasur _doing here?

Reod was too experienced (and attached to his head) to let his surprise and annoyance show, and so he only nodded his head and closed the door behind him. A moment later he was standing in front of his lady's chair, bowing his head in greeting.  
"My lady."

"Captain," Acalith nodded coldly, looking like a particularly beautiful, ethereal ghost in her dark gown and with her pale, almost white skin. She waited until the chestnut coloured head in front of her was raised again, and then added without preamble, "So, what did our esteemed 'guest' say?"

For a fleeting, insane moment, Reod contemplated repeating the elf's reply word for word, but then he decided against it. No matter how amusing it would be, it would not be worth the risk.  
"He … has not changed his mind, my lady," he finally said, rather diplomatically, as he thought.

"He is still defying us?" Salir asked unbelievingly, earning himself an almost inaudible snort from the suspiciously even-faced Gasur.

"He is defying _me_, Salir," Acalith stated somewhat testily. "Me. No one else."

Salir obviously did his best to ignore the gleeful sparkle in Gasur's eyes as he bowed his head in silent acquiescence. Next to them, Reod briefly rolled his eyes. He was just waiting for the moment the two of them would start hitting each other like ill-bred schoolboys. The way things were going at the moment, that day wasn't too far away, either.

After a short, tense silence the young woman shifted slightly in her chair and turned to Gasur, one of her dark brows arched the tiniest bit.  
"Your thoughts, Captain?"

Salir assumed the colour of red wine while Reod did a double take. It happened rarely enough that Lady Acalith asked for anyone's opinion, and that she asked for a captain's – a junior captain's – opinion before she asked that of the man who had been her seneschal ever since her husband's death … well, it was unheard-of. It wasn't an exaggeration or a figure of speech. It _was _unheard-of; to his knowledge it had never happened before. The older captain shook his head inwardly. He was not politician enough to understand what this truly meant, but he was rather certain that it wasn't something good. For Salir, and for the rest of them as well, if he wasn't very much mistaken.

Gasur waited for moment, undoubtedly fully savouring the moment, before he answered.  
"Give him to me, my lady," he pleaded, his eyes shining in his suddenly rather pale face. "I will make him regret his disrespectful behaviour and his lofty words."

"Oh, I do not doubt that, Captain," Acalith smiled and nodded. "I am sure you would. The only problem is that … how can I say this? … well, I want him alive and able to speak after you're finished with him. A dead body or a half-wit will not help me at all."

"Yes," Salir nodded as well, a malicious gleam in his eyes, "You _have _been known to overreact sometimes, Captain."

Gasur gave the older man a look full of such quiet menace that even Reod, with his recent experiences with the elf, was impressed. He was hard-pressed to say which one, the elf or the dark haired captain in front of him, was more intimidating and threatening. It was a question he could not answer, not even in his own mind.

"I can assure you that I will … restrain myself, my lady," Gasur bowed low before his lady, barely concealed anticipation beginning to emanate from his tense body. "I will take care not to … use any excessive measures."

Acalith leaned back, a small frown on her face that most men would have describes as simply adorable, but Reod did not pay her much attention, no matter how unwise he knew it to be. All his attention was fixed on the younger man next to him, who was looking at the young woman with an intensity that could be likened to that with which a cat surveyed a mouse.

They were alike, Reod realised with a startled surprise, a surprise that was not aimed at the realisation but rather the fact that it had taken him so long to notice something that should have been obvious from the very beginning. Many people let themselves be fooled by the picture of innocent beauty that Lady Acalith presented (especially most men), but Reod had known her too long to be fooled by such a ruse. He knew that his lady was as ruthless, cruel and uncaring as the most battle-hardened orc captain, and he was reasonably certain that she did not possess a single virtue or character trait for which the members of the weaker sex were known.

She did, however, possess all the traits that were also to be found in Gasur, even though they were less obvious to the inexperienced eye. The dark, almost insane sparkle that could be seen in the captain's light brown eyes from time to time was absent from the young woman's, but in Reod's opinion that only meant that she had more self-control and discipline than he. That sparkle in his fellow captain's eyes was visible right now, burning brightly like a small candle that had been lit behind the brown orbs. It was a sight that never failed to unsettle him, Reod thought darkly, and only heightened the distaste which he felt for the younger man.

Salir was obviously still trying to come up with something clever that would discredit Gasur in front of their lady when Acalith leaned forward again, a determined expression on her face.

"Alright," she nodded slowly, her dark blue eyes never leaving Gasur's face. "You may have him tomorrow – but only tomorrow. I want to see him personally after that, and if he is still being unreasonable by then…" She trailed off and shrugged her slim shoulders. "We will think about that when and if it happens. Do not forget, however, that I want him alive and sound of mind. Damage him too seriously and I will be most displeased."

A smile that was as bright as the midday's sun spread over the younger captain's face, and he bowed his head, both to hide it and in respect.  
"I understand, my lady. I will not disappoint you."

"I know, Gasur," Acalith smiled again. "I know that you of all people will not. You may go now, all of you."

The three men bowed obediently and turned around, and while they were moving into the direction of the door, Reod had enough time to realise that their lady had just called the younger captain by his name, and only his name. It might mean nothing at all, he admitted reasonably, but then again, it might mean a lot. The possible meaning of that simple slip of the tongue was too unlikely for him to admit it even to himself, and so he chose to ignore it. It was neither his place nor anyone else's to speculate about things like these.

Reod waited for the other two to precede him and closed the door behind him, turning around just in time to see Salir give Gasur a furious, scathing glare before the seneschal whirled around and stalked down the corridor. The older captain watched him go with slightly wide eyes. He was rather sure that he had never before seen Salir so angry.

Gasur, however, was less than impressed, and a tiny sliver of self-satisfaction and glee mixed with the overwhelming anticipation on his face. He turned back to Reod, blinking once and looking strangely reluctant, as if he was about to say something which courtesy and custom dictated but which he did not really wish to say.

"You may join me and my men tomorrow, of course," he offered magnanimously. "I would not deny you enjoyment such as this one, Reod."

The chestnut haired man blinked at him, not really knowing if the other was serious or not.  
"Join you?"

"While we are having a little conversation with the elf," Gasur explained somewhat grumpily, sounding ridiculously like a child that had been forced by its parents to share its favourite toy with an older brother. "I have seen the angry sparkle in your eyes when you look at him. You would get your money's worth, so to speak."

A faint shiver of disgust ran through Reod's being, and he eyed the other man with renewed distaste. He was a soldier, for the Gods' sake, not a torturer!  
"Thank you for your offer, Captain, but no thank you. I am sure you will get on just fine without me."

"Most certainly," Gasur nodded, apparently relieved. He had, however, not missed the other man's emphasis on his rank, and a menacing coldness crept into his almost fever-bright eyes. "It is your choice, Captain."

The tone of voice was of a kind that sent cold shivers down Reod's back, and he hurried to pacify the younger captain.  
"You are an expert in such things, Gasur. I am sure that I would be only a hindrance."

"You might be right," Gasur nodded with a grin, apparently willing to let the matter go. "If you are certain that you are not interested, you'll have to excuse me now. I have much to prepare for tomorrow's … conversation. I have plans to make."

"Surely," Reod nodded his head. "Good night, then, and sweet dreams."

"Oh, I don't need dreams," the dark haired man shook his head, the grin on his face impossibly widening. "Not anymore, that is."

The younger man gave Reod a small nod and turned around, disappearing down the same corridor Salir had taken only a few moments ago. The older captain remained where he was, standing as still as if someone had nailed his feet to the cold stone floor. For several moments, he did not even blink and simply stared after Gasur, unable to form even a single coherent thought.

Gasur was mad, he finally thought to himself, probably a rather belated realisation. He was completely, utterly, totally mad, and if he hadn't been before all this, he most certainly was now. He had also risen in his lady's favour – how much, that was not something he truly wanted to contemplate, if he was perfectly honest. Now Gasur certainly possessed more influence on the Lady Acalith than he (his influence had, in fact, never been exceptionally large), and maybe even more than Salir.

For both these things Reod hated the younger man, for his madness that could bring them nothing but grief in the end, and for the Lady Acalith's favour which he so clearly enjoyed. He did not deserve it, and most certainly not to such an extent.

What was worse than all that, however, was a realisation that was so bitter that he hardly liked to admit it to himself. He did not simply dislike or hate Gasur. He feared him, him and that cold, ruthless, dangerous sparkle in his eyes that chilled him to the bone every single time. It was a fear that was growing inside of him, and every time he saw the dark haired captain, it seemed to increase.

And that, Reod realised while he slowly walked back to his quarters in the other wing of the large house, was the thing for which he hated Gasur most, and the one thing he could not forgive himself.

**  
****  
****  
**

Aragorn leaned back against the tree behind him and sighed contentedly. He had always enjoyed taking first watch, out of many different reasons. One was that by taking either first or last watch you had the chance to get some uninterrupted sleep, but that wasn't the real reason. More important was that it gave you some time to think about the day that was just ending, when everyone else was asleep and the camp was quiet and still.

He hadn't even needed to take a watch, a more lazy part of the young ranger complained. With Tibron and his companions and Isál and the warriors whom the young captain had brought with him, there was no need for any of them to actually take a watch. The elven warrior who had been supposed to keep watch tonight had almost been offended when Aragorn had let him know that he would very much appreciate it if he would allow him to undertake this particular duty, and only after several minutes had the man managed to persuade the other without hurting his feelings. The elf had finally acquiesced and joined some other elves who had decided to sleep in a tree just to prove to Legolas that Noldor could do that, too, and so Aragorn was sitting here, in front of the fire and thankfully alone.

The young man leaned his head against the dark back of the tree trunk, his eyes wandering over the dark heavens. It somehow seemed to him as if he hadn't had five minutes to just sit still and think in these past few days. Ever since the humans had arrived in Rivendell, everything had moved so quickly, and the days were now little more than a blur in his mind. He hadn't had the time to think about what had happened, and neither had he had the time to mourn the death of an elf whom he had known since he had arrived in Imladris as a two-year-old toddler.

He just couldn't imagine it, Aragorn realised, still stunned. He could not wrap his mind around the concept of Erestor being dead. It was simply wrong. There had always been the nagging thought in the back of his mind when he thought about Glorfindel or others of his friends and acquaintances, always the knowledge that they, too, could die. Battles claimed the lives of the Firstborn as certainly as those of Men, and even though the elven race did not suffer from illness or old age, they could die of a broken heart.

He had known that Elvynd could die one day, by sword or arrow or spear or even grief, just like the warriors he had commanded. Even though it did little to ease the pain in his heart, it somehow made it easier to accept their deaths, no matter how much he mourned them.

Erestor, however, was another matter entirely. He had never contemplated that the dark haired scholar could fall in battle, not once in the more than twenty years that he had known him. To hear that Erestor had died in an ambush (if by the hands of orcs or not mattered little in this regard) had taken him completely by surprise, and he could still not believe it. The concept of Erestor dying was as unimaginable and inconceivable as the thought of his adopted father's death. Erestor had always been there and he had always thought that he _would _always be there, no matter what happened to him and the rest of the world. He simply _was_, just like Elrond or the Lady Galadriel.

Out of nowhere, the image of Glorfindel's face appeared in his mind's eye, and once again Aragorn could not suppress the shudder that raced over his back. The first thing he had thought when he had realised what the weapons meant which Tibron had brought to them had actually been "Oh Eru, who will tell Glorfindel?"

He was still exceedingly glad that that person hadn't been him, and the respect and admiration he had always held for Elrohir had only risen. The younger twin had managed to keep Glorfindel from killing someone without losing one or more limbs, which was truly impressive in Aragorn's opinion. Ever since that moment three days ago Glorfindel's eyes hadn't lost that look of disbelieving horror, and the sadness and fury in them had been in stark contrast with the golden haired elf's otherwise completely emotionless face. Elrond had looked much the same every time he had seen them these past few days, and every time Aragorn had wanted to say something to comfort either of them, he had found himself turning around without even opening his mouth. There was nothing he could say, nothing at all.

And he couldn't even blame one of them, Aragorn thought darkly. What would he do if he received such news? What would he do if a group of strangers arrived, telling him that Legolas was dead? That he had died far away from home, without his friends and without knowing that he would be avenged? Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head. He didn't even want to think about it.

"May I join you, Estel?" a soft voice next to him asked, and Aragorn opened his eyes again, already knowing whom he would see. He had not heard the other being's approach, but even if he hadn't recognised the voice after the first word, he would still have known who would seek him out at this hour.

"Of course you may, Legolas," he nodded slightly, raising his bandaged right hand to invite the blond elf to sit down on a small boulder next to him. "Your company is always welcome, you know that."

The wood-elf inclined his head and settled down next to him, his long hair shining in the firelight like polished silver. Legolas' eyes fixed on the fire, staring into the flames wistfully, and just when Aragorn thought his friend wouldn't say anything, he spoke up, his voice soft and quiet and little more than a murmur that was almost immediately swallowed up by the crackling fire.  
"You are too young to sit in front of a fire and brood, alone and at night, _dúnadan_."

"Hear, hear." Aragorn smiled, a little tensely. "Coming from you, these words are either hilarious or extremely hypocritical, _mellon nín_."

"I do not sit in front of fires and brood," Legolas protested automatically.

"No, you do not," Aragorn agreed, a more genuine smile spreading on his face. "You usually retreat into trees to indulge in that particular pastime, you're right."

For a moment, Legolas seemed to want to protest, but then he only shook his head ruefully.  
"You know me far too well, Aragorn."

"You wood-elves are easy to read," the man shrugged nonchalantly. "One only has to know the four objectives in your lives, then you're as easy to read as an open book."

"Four objectives?" the elven prince repeated, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"Of course," Aragorn nodded and began to count on his fingers. "Drinking wine, merrymaking, collecting shiny and sparkling objects and shooting arrows at innocent people."

"Don't forget roasting impudent rangers on spits."

"Now how could I have forgotten that one?" Aragorn asked and shook his head in mock confusion, a frown on his face.

"You're a man," Legolas shook his head as well. "I will never understand your kind, I fear."

Aragorn didn't answer and merely gave him a weak grin, and Legolas leaned forward a little to add another log to the small fire in front of them, mostly to give the young human the opportunity to tell him why he had insisted on taking the first watch. There were more than enough warriors around who all but saw it as an insult when their lords wanted to undertake such a duty, so even the most thick-headed dwarf would have realised that there had to be something on the ranger's mind. He and Elrohir had not even needed to articulate their suspicions, and Legolas had only inclined his head to assure the younger twin that he would talk to Aragorn as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

And that was exactly what he would be doing if the man weren't so stubborn and taciturn.

"Elves die as well, Aragorn," the elven prince finally said softly, guessing correctly what was troubling his friend. "It is the way of things, and has been since we awoke at _Cuiviénen _all these long ages ago."

"I know that!" The man's head came up with a start, but he didn't look at his friend. "I know that only too well! But … but not Erestor. Not like this."

"He was your teacher," Legolas nodded understandingly. "One can never imagine that those who have taught you can actually die."

"Yes," Aragorn nodded as well. "And no. It's not that. I've always known that Glorfindel, for example, could die one day. It was never more than a faint, unlikely possibility at the back of my mind, but it was _there_. Erestor was a scholar. Even though I know that he was a capable warrior when he needed to be, he had no business being out there. He shouldn't have died, not now and certainly not like this."

"No, he shouldn't have," Legolas agreed quietly. "But he did. There's nothing you or anyone else can do about it. You will have to accept what happened, eventually."

"How can I?" the man asked, turning large, serious silver eyes onto his friend. "How can I accept that one of those who know me best is gone, just like that?"

"Don't ask me how." The elven prince bowed his head, but still the sudden sadness in his eyes was visible to the ranger who was sitting next to him. "Don't ask me, because I cannot tell you. All I can say is that you will, one day. It won't diminish your pain, at least not at first, but it will be a start."

"It will never get easier, will it?" Aragorn asked tonelessly, still looking intensely at the fair haired elf. "Losing friends and others you love?"

"No," Legolas admitted softly. "It will never get easier."

"Then I thank the Valar that I am mortal," the man said firmly. "I could not bear the pain and the memories for all eternity." Legolas didn't say anything, and Aragorn reached out to touch his arm, embarrassed and anxious at the same time. "I am sorry, my friend. It was a stupid thing to say."

"No, it wasn't," the elf shook his head with a small, sad smile. "It was in fact a very wise thing to say, Aragorn. That is why only the fearful and the foolish call mortality the Doom of Men, or those whose spirits have been tainted by the old foe. Mortality is a gift, my friend, maybe the greatest gift Ilúvatar has ever bestowed on any of his children. You are not bound to the circles of this world, and even though I do not completely understand what that means, I am still glad for you."

"Sometimes, I am, too," Aragorn nodded after a moment. "But then I remember that I will forever be separated from those I love, no matter what I do and how hard I fight. One day I will be parted from you, and from my brothers and my father and all my elven friends. I am no Tuor, and I doubt that the Valar would grant me the same favour they are said to have granted him when he and his wife reached the Blessed Realm."

Legolas didn't answer immediately, his eyes fixed firmly on the flames in front of them.

"I do not know very much about things like these," he finally said after a few moments. "My people have never reached the shores of Valinor, and know therefore little of the Valar and their lands. And no matter what is said about the Halls of Mandos, the Blessed Realm and the fate of your people, I cannot believe that Eru would want his children to be parted forever. Who knows what will happen after this world as we know it has ended? Not even Manwë himself knows all of Ilúvatar's thoughts and plans. We will see each other again after you have left the circles of this world, Aragorn, one day. I know we will, because Eru wouldn't want to tear asunder people who love each other. If there is one thing in which I believe in this world, it is this one."

Slowly, the darkness that had clouded the young man's eyes receded, and after several heartbeats he smiled brightly at his elven friend.  
"That is a nice thought, _mellon nín_. It is something I would very much like to believe in."

"Then do it," Legolas smiled back. "I am young still in the eyes of my people, but I know that the One is compassionate and full of love for all his children. He simply _cannot _wish to separate us forever."

"Nobody can do that for a prolonged amount of time," Aragorn shook his head. "Well, apart from our fathers. But they're just plain evil."

"You will hear no argument from me," Legolas agreed, his smile widening into a grin. "That they are, and more besides." He fell silent for a moment, but then he looked up from where he was studying the flickering fire and looked at his human friend, his eyes serious. "Will you be alright, Estel?"

"Yes," the man nodded quietly. "Yes, I will be. I am more worried about Elrohir at the moment. He's always liked and admired Erestor, ever since I can remember. I talked with him about it, and I know Elladan and _ada _did, too, but Elrohir doesn't always show what he is truly thinking. If something is really bothering him, he buries it so deeply within himself that no one but Elladan can find it."

"I'll keep an eye on him," the fair haired elf assured his companion. "If I can see him through this constant rain, that is."

Aragorn grinned at his friend's words, his eyes automatically going to the dark heavens. Right now was in fact one of the few times it was not raining; since their departure from Rivendell it had been raining almost non-stop. Tibron and the other humans were anything but happy, and the blond, tall man was even getting slightly worried. Aberon was situated right next to the Mitheithel, and who knew what would happen if it kept raining like this. Aragorn could tell that Tibron wasn't completely serious, but the other man's concern was enough to unsettle him a little bit. The absolutely last thing they needed was to arrive in Aberon and find that it had been flooded.

"And that from a wood-elf," he teased the elf gently. "You are said to be able to spot a woodpecker that is hiding in a huge tree, and that from a mile off!"

"We used to do that," Legolas nodded seriously. "But then all woodpeckers were eaten by the black squirrels. A terrible tragedy."

For a moment, Aragorn merely stared at his friend.  
"Surely you are joking," he finally said, doubt visible in his grey eyes.

Legolas smiled enigmatically while he began to climb to his feet.  
"Wouldn't you like to know."

With another grin he was gone, leaving behind a rather confused young human who, once again, couldn't make up his mind about whether or not the elf had been serious. There were really not many birds in Mirkwood, he thought to himself while he started poking the fire with a stick, his sombre mood from earlier chased away like a bad dream. He had always thought it to be because most birds were too clever to live in such a gloomy and dangerous place as Mirkwood, but from what he'd heard about the black squirrels that were living in King Thranduil's woods, it wasn't entirely impossible that his friend was actually telling the truth.

He would ask Celylith once they got back to Rivendell, Aragorn decided after several minutes of silent musing. If there was one person in Mirkwood who would know something like this, it was Legolas' slightly insane, silver haired friend.

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He had never known that three days could be such a long period of time. He had suspected it on several occasions in the past, but never until now had he had definite, incontestable proof.

Elladan scowled at the darkening sky and the heavy grey clouds that covered it and made it look like a field of dirty snow. He would never tell Elrohir or Aragorn or even Legolas for that matter, but he missed them. He missed their company, their annoying attempts to keep him entertained and even their stupid jokes. But most of all, the older twin admitted to himself, he missed _them_.

And he was bored. He had been a good little elf and had done everything the healers had asked of him these past few days, including resting, putting as little weight on his left leg as possible and spending a lot of time in the gardens. That last thing was ostensibly for his own health, but Elladan was strongly suspecting that the healers were more concerned about their own well-being (and sanity) than they were about his.

Even Gaerîn had been positively easy-going, even though she seemed to be slightly dispirited. Her dark haired kinswoman whose name he couldn't remember at the moment was doing her best to cheer her up a little, but not even the most elaborate attempts seemed to yield any positive results whatsoever. The twin grinned slightly, trying to ignore the dull ache in his leg as best as possible. Aragorn and Legolas might think that Elrohir and he didn't know that Isál had told them about his love for the red haired healer, which was only one more proof for their naiveté and inexperience. There was not much that happened in Imladris and that one of them did not know about.

Still, even with Gaerîn not pursuing her favourite pastime, namely annoying her patients to death, he was still bored out of his skull. He usually enjoyed reading and spending time singing and merrymaking with his friends as much as the next elf, but reading tended to lose quite a bit of its appeal if you had been doing nothing else in the past two weeks. And merrymaking was a rather dreary affair if you couldn't even join your friends to dance.

He had tried to exercise a bit with his sword or dagger or, when that had proven to be too painful, to at least shoot a bow, but it appeared that Gaerîn's distraction and dejection didn't go that far. Before he had shot more than two arrows, the small red haired she-elf had appeared out of thin air (Elladan was almost sure he had heard a small sound when she had suddenly materialised next to him) and had dragged him back to the main house. She either had ears like a bat or had her spies everywhere, he thought darkly.

Not entirely unlike Erestor, Elladan realised a moment later. Erestor had possessed that ability as well, and he couldn't count all the times when the councillor had appeared out of nowhere at the exact wrong moment in the exact wrong place. It had been a decidedly uncanny ability, an ability he found himself missing fiercely. That train of thought caused the dark haired twin to smile bitterly. Oh, he _could _be worse off at the moment. He could be with Glorfindel.

The sound of almost inaudible footsteps drew him out of his musings, and a moment later his father stepped next to him, his long dark robes swirling arout his feet. The older elf rested his hands on the wrought-iron railing that encircled the platform they were standing on, his grey eyes fixed on the darkening valley that spread out in front of them.

"You should come back inside," Elrond finally said. "Gelydhiel is looking for you, and so are most of the other healers."

"Let them look," Elladan all but growled. "If they can't find me, it's their problem, not mine. They are not my keepers." He fell silent for a moment before he turned to look at his father somewhat suspiciously. "How did _you _find me, _ada_?"

"Oh, please, Elladan," the elf lord shook his head, faint amusement dancing in his eyes. "Give my intelligence some credit. When Elrohir wants to hide from everyone else, he goes to the banks of the Bruinen. Estel goes to the small hall where we keep the Shards of Narsil, and you come here. Arwen always climbs onto the roof, which I always thought to be strange, considering that she is the girl."

Elladan smiled at the thought of his little sister and finally shrugged inwardly, knowing that his question had been a stupid one. Ever since he had been an elfling he had liked to come here, to this balcony that was far removed from prying eyes and ears. It belonged to a room that had been deserted for as long as he could remember and which held nothing but discarded furniture and countless rows of dust-covered books, and was overlooking a less often frequented part of the gardens. Behind it, one could see the courtyard and the main gates, and even further in the distance the entire valley of Rivendell spread out beneath their feet in all its glory. The view was breathtakingly beautiful, and since he had laid eyes on it for the first time many, many years ago – after his first real fight with Elrohir – it had been his favourite place in all of Imladris.

"You're lucky _nana _isn't a wood-elf," Elladan finally said with a small grin. "We would forever be sitting in one tree or other and you would never find us."

"Yet another thing for which I pity Lord Thranduil," Elrond bowed his head solemnly. "How the poor elf has managed to hold onto his sanity this long will forever remain a mystery to me."

"You know those Sindar," Elladan waved a hand dismissively, in almost the exact same manner Glorfindel had not too long ago. If the golden haired elf could have seen him, he would have been immensely proud. "They are a strange lot."

"Talking like this about someone who is both older and wiser than you is most reprehensible," his father informed him in a tone of voice that sounded even serious. "You would do well to remember that the next time you see Lord Thranduil, my son."

"Yes, father. I am sorry," Elladan nodded obediently, not sounding sorry at all.

"If I had got a piece of mithril every time you or one of your siblings has said that in just that tone of voice, I would be the richest elf that has ever lived," Elrond said with a long-suffering sigh. "And now you should sit down and take your weight off your leg."

"I am fine. It doesn't hurt." Elrond merely raised an eyebrow and gave him the _look_, and so Elladan relented after a moment. "Fine, it does hurt, but only a little. I have been sitting far too much lately, _ada_. I will go stark raving mad if I don't get to _do _something soon!"

"You _are _doing something, Elladan," Elrond stated, looking seriously at his oldest son. "You are being far more impatient than an elf of your age and experience ought to be. Your hip needs time and rest to heal, and you know that as well as I do."

"If I rest any more, I will snap and kill someone," Elladan informed his father in a rather serious tone of voice. "Preferably Gaerîn, now that I think about it. That she-elf is Morgoth in disguise, I am sure about it!"

"Now, now, Elladan," Elrond shook his head admonishingly, "Lady Gaerîn is a very capable healer, and you should show her the respect she is due." He smiled suddenly, something that banished the dark shadows that had lain over his eyes ever since Tibron and the other humans had arrived here four days ago, even if only for a moment. "And besides, she is the only healer who can keep Glorfindel in bed."

Elladan smiled as well, remembering the scene he had interrupted earlier this morning when he had come to visit the golden haired elf lord. He didn't try and keep Glorfindel company often, for his former teacher had informed him that he did not wish for anyone's company right now, and that in a very unambiguous manner, but he still did from time to time, especially when he was feeling very bored. Visiting Glorfindel cheered him up every single time, one way or the other. This morning he had hastily retreated, after watching for five minutes how Gaerîn and Glorfindel stared at each other with enough ire to awake fear in the heart of even Sauron himself. Elladan was rather sure that both of them were right now wishing the other to the top of Mount Doom or to an equally unpleasant place.

"How is he, _ada_?" he asked softly after a few heartbeats. "He won't talk to me, not really."

"Physically, he is already much improved," Elrond answered, his eyes once again returning to the stunning picture that presented itself to them. "His broken ankle will still need some time to heal, but the other is already much better. If he keeps healing as rapidly as he is right now, he will soon be back on his feet."

"And otherwise?"

Elrond sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head.  
"Otherwise, not well. He is taking Erestor's death hard. Very hard."

Elladan thought of the pain and sadness Glorfindel carried around with him like a heavy cloak and smiled darkly. That had actually been a rather polite way of saying it.

"Will he be alright?" he finally asked tentatively, suddenly feeling like a child once more, in need of reassurance and comfort. "He will not … leave, will he?"

Without even thinking, Elrond laid a hand on his son's forearm and shook his head.

"No, Elladan, he will not leave." There was no doubt on his face, and there was no doubt in his heart. Glorfindel took his duty very seriously, and no matter how much he hurt, he would not forsake those he had sworn to protect. Elrond had no doubts about it that, as long as he himself remained in Middle-earth, Glorfindel would as well. "Do not worry about that. He will not leave. He just needs time to accept what happened. He will be alright. Eventually."

"I hope so," Elladan said quietly. "I am not used to seeing him like this. Rarely have I seen him so withdrawn and … angry."

"Yes," Elrond agreed. "I will have to keep my word and let him go in a few days, and I do not doubt that he will make every single orc he can find regret having ever been spawned."

Elladan opened his mouth to say something, but closed it just as quickly without uttering a single word. His father was not in the right mood right now for him to try and convince him that he was perfectly able to accompany Glorfindel once the time came, but he definitely would broach the subject later this evening. There was absolutely no way he would stay here, alone, without even an ill-tempered Glorfindel to keep him company and share his misery.

"I have been thinking," he told his father who had leaned forward a little, his eyes narrowed and fixed firmly on something in the far distance. There was a distracted expression on the older elf's face he couldn't explain right away. "I think you should give Glorfindel at least twice as many guards as we first planned. Even if we are wrong and it was orcs that killed them after all, we'll need more than a single company to deal with them."

Elladan looked at his father and grinned inwardly. The older elf hadn't protested at his use of the word "we" – that was a good sign, wasn't it? Then again, he corrected himself, the inward grin quickly fading, his father didn't seem to notice a lot at the moment. He was still staring at something Elladan could not see, the distracted expression on his face now being replaced by something that could have been concern or disbelief, or both.

"If we are right and someone else was responsible," Elladan went on, deciding to seize this chance, "it is even more reasonable to take more warriors with us. I am not saying that I don't believe Tibron's words, but I don't trust him either, and neither do I trust the rest of the humans. It might very well be that we'll need all the help we can get, and I really … _ada_? _Ada_?! Are you even listening? What is it?"

Elrond did not answer his son's questions, did not even acknowledge his presence, his eyes still fixed firmly on the quickly darkening horizon. For long moments, the Lord of Imladris did not even move a single muscle, standing as still as a carved stone statue, only his long dark hair moving slightly in the evening breeze.

Then, suddenly, the moment of inactivity was over, and all Elladan could do was stare as his father whirled around and began to run into the direction of the gates.

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TBC...

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_dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West', ranger  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
Cuiviénen (Q.) - 'The Water of Awakening', the place on the eastern shores of the lake of Helcar (in the far East of Arda) where the first Elves awoke sometime during the Years of the tree. The Vala Oromë eventually found them and guided them (at least partly) to Valinor  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
nana (S.) - mother (mummy)_

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•anticipatory grin• Well, what has Elrond seen? Three-headed flesh-eating ravenous squirrels? An orc invasion? Or, the greatest horror of them all ... •shudders• ... Mary-Sues? •g• Nah, don't worry, not even I would be THAT cruel. Anyway, we'll find out in a week. That's not too long, is it? •ducks stones of various sizes• Since I have asked for reviews every chapter of this story, I will do so again. Call me a traditionalist. •g• So, reviews? Yes, please!

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**Additional A/N: **

**KLMeri -** LOL, yes, it would be quite interesting if Elrond really did that. Amputate Glorfindel's feet, I mean. Would serve him right, stubborn reborn elf that he is. •g• I am sorry to say that no, Elvynd will NOT stumble over anyone. I guess that's just bad luck. Besides, it would ruin the whole plot, and we can't have that, can we? •evil grin• In case you're wondering, the answer to that question is no. •g• Oh, and the "let's-get-revenge group" will indeed make it three days from Rivendell before they'll get into trouble. They'll even make it six days, which is coincidentally the amount of time it takes to travel from Rivendell to Aberon. Funny. •g•  
**Alilacia -** No, it's a perfectly good reason. And Jared Leto IS hot. Even when he's wearing kohl. Don't ask me how he manages it. •g• LOL, aliens are coming to take Elvynd away? That IS an interesting idea. I might work it into the humourous story/parody/whatever I promised Jack for Easter (or her birthday, depending on how much free time I'll have). I'm sure she'd appreciate it. •g• But I have to admit that you're right. Every time Legolas promises to look after someone else, he ends up being tortured/injured/maimed/whatever. That elf should just stop promising anybody to do anything! •g• OMG, Diego's "death" in Ice Age WAS tragic! I still know that I watched that movie in Cambridge (don't ask me why I remember that), and all the children in the cinema weren't even teary-eyed. I, on the other hand, was bawling like a baby... •sheepish• My sister's party was very nice though, thanks. I compensated for the fact that I don't smoke weed of any kind by drinking about three bottles of wine. Might have been two, though. I honestly don't know. •g•  
**HarryEstel -** I'll tell my sister, thanks - if she ever speaks with me again, that is. At the moment she is too caught up being 18 to notice me. •g• Oh, don't worry about something like that. Glorfindel has given Elrond his word that he will stay for another week, and he would never break an oath. At least that's what I think. It wouldn't be very elf-lordly. •g• Then again, since when has that ever stopped him?  
**Solo23 -** Yeah, I guess Elladan IS a bit unhappy at the moment. Silly elf. •g• I know precisely what you mean, though. I hate waiting for updates, too, that's why I do my best to update regularly. It doesn't always work, but nobody is perfect, least of all me. •g• Oh, and don't worry about leaving long reviews (besides, this one is pretty long already!). I love reviews, but I wouldn't want your sister to kill you. I'd lose a reviewer, and we can't have that, can we? •g• Thanks for reviewing!  
**Barbara Kennedy -** Well, I hope you've managed to catch up, otherwise this chapter isn't going to make much sense, I think. Yes, even less sense than usual. •g• I have no idea why my name was on my sister's birthday cake. •smirks• Someone must have put it there, but who? •g• I hope you enjoyed your holidays, and thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**Lynn-G -** You are quite right, you know, Elrond IS a very, very poor elf. He must have done something in a former life to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment... •g• I'm sorry, but there will be no departure scene this time. I am already behind schedule, and such a scene that isn't really necessary (even though it would be a rather nice scene to write would make everything only worse. I have to learn to say no to my characters, I know. •g•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure -** It's not a very nice thing to do, you know, doing such things to a friend. Lots of fun, though, I'll admit that. •g• I think "Foolish Gondolin Elf" sums the whole thing up nicely. He really is a tiny bit foolish. •g• Do you really think Aragorn and Legolas would manage to get into that much trouble in less than half an hour? •thinks• Yeah, now that I think about it, I guess you're right. My bad. •g•  
**Elvendancer -** Well, the more I think about it, the more I find that killing Elvynd after all would be very nice. Not nice in the "A nice thing to do"-way, but rather a nice thing in the "Geez, I really wasn't expecting that one"-kind of way. Besides, it would amuse my alter ego to no end. But thanks for your advice. Should I decide to kill him, I'll do just that. Siberia is supposed to be very nice this time of year. •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing -** Yup, I'm very sure. You would know if I were completely insane, trust me. I haven't even started yet. Everything can still get a lot worse. •g• I have to admit that it wouldn't be nice to kill Elvynd after all that pain and doom and so on, but it would be very amusing. I dont' know yet, though. I MIGHT be nice for once. •g• But I promise that, if he dies, he will die in peace. Deal? •evil grin•  
**Viggomaniac -** No! •astonished• You actually expect me to •torture• someone, least of all someone as nice as Aragorn?! How dare you, Madam! •g• Alright, yes, I'll stop it. To be honest, I was already kind of guessing what kind of "Aragorn moments" you were referring to. I had to ask, though. •g• •catches broad hint• So, yes, I get it, don't worry. As I said in the A/N, there will be some ... •cough• ... torture in this little story, but in a few chapters at the earliest. I'll see if I can put in a bit of angst earlier though, kind of as a bit of consolation. Would that be acceptable? •g•  
**Ithiliel Silverquill -** So you like angst AND Glorfindel and Erestor, huh? You might be right; this migth be the right kind of story for you. •g• I have to admit that I've never had a migraine either, but my father had them for years. I pity everyone who has them, I really do. I really can't tell you whether or not Elvynd will recover in time to kill Gasur. I've been thinking about that question myself, almost non-stop. And besides, I guess that at the end of this story there'll be plenty of people who'll want to kill him. •g• And don't laugh at Fuifilig. My sister's horse is scared of everything with wings, I swear it! •g•  
**Crystal-Rose15 -** So you're really leaving? Congratulations! I am very happy for you, and I'm sure you'll have a great time. I do envy you. •g• I am, however, very glad that you're not too cross with me. I didn't really want to split the twins up, but having them go everywhere together all the time was getting boring. Plus, I want to surprise you from time to time! LOL, I have created an irate, injured and irritable elf? Sorry about that... •g•  
**Grumpy -** Hmm, well, let's just say that he won't meet with anyone. That would be far too easy. Besides, it would ruin the plot and would make my alter ego very unhappy. I never make her unhappy if I can help it at all. •g• It's grat to hear that you like Fuifilig. •pats horse• A very smart and brave animal. Insane, but brave.  
**Viresse -** I'm glad you like the Elladan scene. He's in this chapter, too, now that I think about it. Lucky him. •g• I honestly don't know how much we'll see of Elladan in the next few chapter, but rest assured that I will not forget him. That would be ... cruel. And I'm not cruel, I'm only very mean. Yes, that's a difference. •g• Even a very important one. Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**InsanePirate624 -** Don't tell anyone, but I do the same. I don't really review much anyway, and am deeply ashamed of it since there are so many great stories out there. I just barely have the time to write (and not even that lately), so most of the time I haven't enough time only to review. A very sad story. •shakes head• So, your favourite is "doom", huh? Well, I completey understand. (and so does Elrond, I'm sure) It's a great word! •huggles the word "doom"• Thank you very much for your review!  
**Elvingirl3737 -** Oh yes, being scary can be very relaxing. I do it all the time with my sister's friends. Somehow they're all afraid of me, I don't know why either... •clueless grin• LOL, yes, one would expect Estel to show a little gratitute. That's what I tell him all the time (after all, I never killed him, did I?), but he doesn't really see it my way. Males are just strange. •shakes head• •takes author gold star for characterisations• Wow, for me? Thank you! •huggles• That's so great! I'll put it right next to my screen so I can look at it all the time! Thanks! •huggles•  
**TrustingFriendship -** Ah, that would be a no. He won't make it in time, you're right. But, honestly: Wouldn't it have been boring if he had made it? I think it would have. Then again, I AM insane and evil. •g• And Glorfindel already IS feeling much better. That's something, isn't it? •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan -** •g• Yeah, Elrond would like that word. "Doom", I mean. It IS a very nice word, now that I think about it. •g• So random people you meet on the streets tell you that you haven't even a shred of common sense? Now I wonder why... •g• And what makes you think that Legolas/Elrohir/Aragorn will be "captured and tortured without mercy"? I really have no idea. Would I ever do something like that? Think about your answer. •menacing look• LOL, the idea of attempting to attack and defeat Morgoth with a letter opener and a bag of peanuts is hilarious. Somehow I can see our fearless heroes do something like that ... God, I need help... •g• Anyway, enjoy the little cliffy! I hope you'll like it!  
**Tiryns -** The doom IS rather obvious, isn't it? I wonder why none of them can see it - they really don't learn anything, do they? •shakes head• Silly elves and/or ranger. I always thought Celeborn at least as impressive as Galadriel - at least in the books. I won't even talk about the movies, though. •shudders at horrible memories• Quick, think happy thoughts.... •shudders again• God, I really hate Movie-Celeborn. But I agree, I would like to see Glorfindel repeat that in front of Galadriel. She would most likely do another one of these "Instead of a dark lord you shall have a queen"-speeches and go all scary and glowy. Creepy. •g•  
**Golden Elf -** Don't worry about him. I guess at least one of Glorfindel's ankles will be fine by the time he decides to ride into almost certain doom. That's better than nothing, right? •insincere smile• Oh, and I am planning to letting Elvynd make it back to Rivendell. I am not saying I'll let him make it back alive though. Yes, I AM evil. •g• So you want another love story, huh? If Elvynd survives all this, I'll think about it. Hmm, specify "hurt Erestor beyond recognition". What exactly do you mean by that? •evil grin• I would really like to know, because writer's block can be a real b••••. •g• Anyway, thanks a lot for the review! •huggles•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel -** Hey, this review isn't short! I'd call it very long, in fact! Short indeed... •shakes head disbelievingly• And I'd love to send you the story when it's finished - so in about three years or so. •g• You'll have to remind me after the last chapter or so, I guess. I have a memory like a sieve, I really do. •g• I have to admit that I've never heard of David Edding. Is he a Fantasy author? If he is, that would explain it. I read about everything but Fantasy. I just don't like it at all. I know, that's rather strange, coming from a LOTR freak. But Tolkien is the only Fantasy author that has ever been of even the remotest interest to me... •shrugs• I don't really know why either. OMG, you actually know Sharpe? I read most of the books a few months ago, and in November Jack and I watched all the movies. I guess I have to add that we both hate Sean Bean and couldn't stop laughing because the movies are so bloody funny. Did you notice that they're always storming the same bloody hill? •shakes head• The books were really good (even though even they got kind of predictable after the first ten or so), so what the heck were they thinking? Anyway, we had lots of fun. And I know what scene you mean. "Sword" is one of my "favourite" movies, meaning that I hated it less than the rest. That duel at the end was laughable, btw. •g• I hope I didn't hurt your feeling with this little tirade. •g• If I have, sorry. I didn't mean to.  
**Marbienl - **Yes, it really does happen, doesn't it? I've seen it several times myself... It's really interesting to watch someone turn green or grey in the face, isn't it? •evil grin• Oh, and Erestor is definitely still something of a mystery man. I still can't figure him out completely. Maybe I never will; some characters are like that... •shrugs• Especially old elves. They're a tricky lot. And no, I'm not taking up the Lindir-plotbunny. He doesn't know Aragorn well and doesn't like him at all. End of story. •g• Glaurung was indeed a dragon, you could even say THE dragon, since he was the father of the rest. He was slain by Túrin sometime in the first age, even though it was too late already to... Ah well, that would take too long here. It's all in the Silmarillion. LOL, no, Elvynd's no red shirt, I know. But still...•evil grin•  
**Crippled Raven -** Yup, leaving reviews can be tricky. I mean it, FF-net is the spawn of hell. At least. •g• So your computer is Beelzebub, huh? Strangely enough, I can very well imagine that... I need help. Lots and lots of it. •g• Yes, you ARE quite strange. Don't try to deny it, missy. You know I'm right. •g• And don't laugh at poor Fuifilig. •pats the horse• My sister's horse is mortally afraid of birds of any kind, I swear. Such things really do happen! I have to admit though that I have no idea whether or not elves keep chickens. I guess they might. There are elven stableboys and things like that, after all, so I guess looking after chickens is not beneath the Firstborn. Besides, maybe Elrond likes omelettes? •g• Oh, and watching Alexander on Sky sounds like a very good idea. Just don't spend any money on it. Jack and I didn't really regret it, but we ARE able to find humour in the most stupid places. Most people aren't quite as strange as we are. •g• I wish you luck for your GCSEs, I'm sure you'll do well! Go to bed early and don't worry about it. There's nothing you can do about it anymore, anyway. I know, that's not exactly very reassuring. •g• Anyway, thanks for the review and good luck again! •huggles•  
**Beling2 -** Wow, 15 chapters in two days! That's not too bad! Congrats! •shakes hands• I'm glad you like this story so far, and my strange humour. I'm afraid I couldn't write an entirely serious chapter to save my live. I'm never planning to actually put all these things into the chapters, they just ... pop up. •shrugs• I'm weird, I know. •g• Oh, and Legolas IS a dim-witted wood-elf. Sad, but true. •g• I'll see what I can do about Elvynd. I'm not making any promises though. Thank you very much for all your kind words (•still blushing•), and for your all your reviews, of course!  
**Bookworm85 -** •g• It's nice to hear that you liked the title. I always try to come up with something that really fits the chapter, but I guess I don't always succeed. •shrugs• I think so too; Elladan really isn't used to not accompanying Elrohir whenever he leaves Rivendell. So, naturally, I had to put him into such a situation. That's evil and mean, don't tell me. •g• And you're right, of course, someone has to greet Celylith. Silly wood-elf, he should just have stayed at home. •g•  
**Ventinari -** FF-net really did that? •outraged• They really DO hate me! Mind you, I'm not very surprised, and besides, I hate them too, but that's still rather evil. Eating poor, innocent chapters... •shakes head• FF-net just is an evil website from hell. It really is. Don't worry about anything. FF-net is •definitely• to blame. Then again, they always are. •g• Yes, well, why Gasur hates elves so much ... I really can't tell you. Trust me, it would ruin everything. And what Acalith wants from Erestor ... well, that's also a little hard to explain without giving everything away. I guess you'll just have to wait and see. Oh, and yes, I DO like being vague. •g• I hope you get well soon - having a cold really isn't all that nice. •g• •does not huggle in order not to get sick, too•  
**Itha Arrowland -** Nah, they're not overly happy at the moment. None of them, to be exact. •g• Oh, and I absolutely agree. "Doom" is a wonderful word, and, if used properly, can have a lot of interesting consequences. •looks at word tenderly• Don't you just love it? •g• Anyway, thanks a lot for your review!  
**Elitenschwein -** •g• Ist doch schoen, dich mal wieder zu sehen! Ich dachte schon, du haettest dich mit billigen polnichen Boellern direkt nach Valinor gebombt oder so... •g• Und ich muss dir schon Recht geben (oder wie auch immer man das nach der neuen Rechtschreibung schreibt): Elrond und Glorfindel haben beide diesen "vicious streak". Nicht wirklich eine Ueberraschung, oder? •g• Und was heisst hier Alter Egos waeren "Entschuldigung fuer's eigene Tun"? Ich habe ein Alter Ego, und sie kann ziemlich fies werden! Und Jack hat genauso boese Ideen wie ich! •Kopf nick• Alles nicht meine Schuld, wirklich. •g• Ich hoffe, deine Babysit-Kinder haben dich nicht allzu sehr genervt (manchmal kann's ja wirklich ganz schoen anstrengend werden!), und hier ist auch das Update! Yay! •g•  
**Alison H -** •shakes head• Your poor, poor printer. It really deserves a hug. •g• But it's very brave and tenacious. I hope you give it regular breaks. •g• And yes, I did separate the twins. It was mostly because I really think it's boring when they're together all the time. Oh, and because I have an alter ego and, this way, we have more potential angst scenes looming on the horizon.•g• But since you love twin angst... I hope your Christmas and New Year was great, too. Thanks a lot for your review!

**I once again have to thank you for all your lovely reviews. They really cheer me up and brighten my days. Considering that it's getting dark outside at about 4 pm, I really need that! •g• Thanks again!**


	17. Darkness Rising

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

•g• Great you liked the four/five objectives of the common wood-elf. There might be a few others that I've missed, so if you can think of any, don't hesitate to let me know! I'm sure they'd somehow make their way into the story... •g• Somehow I doubt that Legolas will be overly amused. Ah well, that's not my problem, is it? •elven arrow comes out of nowhere• Well, okay, it might be, but still. •g•

Oh, I can't really say anything about the black squirrels, I'm sorry. Legolas wouldn't tell me either, he simply mumbled something about "nosy, insane authoresses" and walked away. •shrugs• I'll never understand him, I fear. •g• We'll just have to wait 'til Celylith makes an appearance, I guess. He would know, crazy wood-elf that he is.

And before I forget, let's all wave good-bye to Crystal-Rose15, who is going to study in New Zealand for a while. •waves good-bye• If I weren't so jealous, I would actually cry. •g• Anyway, I hope you'll have a great time! •huggles Crystal-Rose•

Alright, here's the next bit, yes, WITH the bit of Erestor-torture. Really, you people are horrible. •shakes head disapprovingly• You should thank me, you know. Jack wanted me to put more torture into the scene, but I didn't. Really. •g• Oh, and we find out whom Elrond saw last chapter. Most of you had already guessed it anyway. I think I'm getting predictable in my old age...

Have fun and review, please!**  
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**Chapter 17 

He knew this place. He wasn't really sure about anything at the moment, but about this he was absolutely and completely certain. He knew this place, if he could only remember from where.

That, however, was the problem, Elvynd decided with some trouble. He couldn't remember from where he knew this place, and the only remotely reassuring thing about the entire matter was the fact that he could indeed not remember anything. He was not an elf who was prone to exaggeration (or so he thought) and was therefore completely serious. He couldn't remember from where he knew this place, but he also couldn't remember just what he was doing here. He couldn't really remember what he had been doing for the past few days either, or just why he was feeling so horribly wretched.

"Wretched", he thought sarcastically, might be an entirely inappropriate word. His vocabulary seemed to have taken as much damage as his memory and the rest of him, but he knew that there was a word that would describe his momentary condition much more accurately. The dark haired elf frowned slightly, not even noticing that his eyes were beginning to slide shut once again (they were, after all, doing that all the time lately). He didn't really know which word he was thinking about, but "half-dead" was as good a description as any.

'If there is a prize for the most positive outlook on life, you have just won it,' the small, reasonable part of his mind informed him wryly. '_Half_-dead must be the understatement of the _yén_. No, make that the understatement of this age.'

Elvynd ignored the small voice and stared straight ahead. He had some experience with that voice, after all, for it had been pestering him incessantly to do the strangest and absurdest things, like staying awake or not drifting off into that wonderful half-unconsciousness. It was getting easier and easier to ignore that part of him that was really beginning to annoy him, especially since yesterday. Sometimes he thought that the fact that it was beginning to get harder and harder to think was somehow connected to it, but he really couldn't be sure.

The weirdest thing, however, was that he somehow knew that he should listen to that voice. More so, he had _wanted _to listen to that voice in the beginning, even though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. Back then, when it had been easier to think and see and hear, it had sounded like a good idea, the staying awake and aware part. Now however, when his whole body hurt so much that it was almost impossible to think of anything but the pain that throbbed through his very being with every step that his horse took, staying awake sounded not only stupid, it sounded downright masochistic.

Someone, Elvynd decided dimly, had exchanged his blood for molten lava. Whoever it had been – certainly a sick and thoroughly deranged person – also seemed to have planted sharp rocks inside his body that grated against one another every now and then. But even if that was true, it still didn't explain two things: Why his right shoulder had swollen to twice its usual size, and why his head seemed to be very, very far away from his body. He was reasonably certain that his skull was still connected with the rest of him – it simply hurt too much to have come loose at some point or other – but it felt as if it was floating above him, somewhere close to the clouds.

For a few moments Elvynd amused himself with imagining what he must look like, with a neck at least a thousand feet long, but his already hurting brain decided that the whole question really wasn't worth all the hassle that thinking about anything brought with it. Every time he really tried to think about anything at all, the world seemed to blur together at the edges. Oh, and his head tended to explode into tiny, ragged pieces. Only figuratively speaking, of course, or at least he hoped so.

His horse stumbled slightly, the almost undetectable movement serving to nearly throw him off the animal's back. His hold on the horse's mane was precarious at best, the reins having slipped out of his grasp a decade or two ago, and the slight jerk was almost enough to send him head over feet over the bay's elegant neck. He fumbled for a better hold, for something, anything, that would prevent him from falling flat on his face, and finally managed to tangle his left hand in the horse's mane more firmly. As far as he could tell, the last thing he could use right now would be falling from his horse's back.

The pain that washed over him a moment later was intense, but nothing he hadn't already experienced during these past few days, and Elvynd found that it, too, was getting easier and easier to ignore. It somehow didn't really seem to concern him anymore, as if his body had decided that it could safely ignore the pain's implications. The young elf frowned, idly noticing the sweat that was beginning to trail down his face. He was rather sure that this was a bad thing, but he really couldn't say why.

_But_, he tried to remind himself, desperately trying to force his straying thoughts back to the former topic, he knew this place. He was rather sure that he had been here before, at one time or another. Even though it was getting darker and darker – something which the tiny, reasonable part of him accredited to the fact that the sun was sinking below the horizon – he was certain that he knew the layout of the land.

Elvynd made a mighty effort to concentrate and lifted his head as far as he was able, which turned out to be just far enough to look over his horse's head. Fuifilig was moving at a leisurely pace, most likely both to make the journey as easy as possible on his rider and because the horse, too, was tired. The elf couldn't remember how long they had been travelling, today and in general, but even in his barely-aware state he could sense that the animal beneath him was tired to the bone. If he had any strength left, Elvynd would have laughed. That made two of them, then.

The dark haired captain blinked, trying to get his surroundings into better focus. The feeling that he should know these lands had crept up on him several times lately, in fact every time he had been even remotely aware and lucid (which was, admittedly, not too often), and now he was completely certain that he had been here before. He suddenly remembered the river he had crossed some time ago and realised that he had known it, too. He couldn't remember the name and what exactly it had looked like, but even if his horse hadn't been so sure-footed and unerring when it had crossed the stream, he would have been certain that he knew it.

Elvynd thought hard, his eyes wandering over the gently sloping lands. Every time he thought he was actually getting somewhere, the overwhelming pain and weakness in his body became too much and tore his concentration into tiny pieces. Even if he hadn't been in such a sorry state, he would have been hard-pressed to put them back together, and a moment later he was ready to give up once and for all and yield to the solid darkness that was lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting for him to let his guard down like a hungry, insatiable predator.

Just before he surrendered himself to it, though, the trees standing left and right of the rocky path receded somewhat and allowed everyone who possessed the strength to use their eyes and brain unhindered view on what lay ahead. It took Elvynd quite a long time to force his eyes (not to mention his brain which seemed to have taken a prolonged leave of absence) to co-operate, but Fuifilig didn't seem to have such problems. The tired horse lifted its head almost instantaneously and began to trot down the path as quickly as it could manage. At least one of them seemed to know where they were going, a part of the dark haired elf commented sourly.

Fuifilig was already moving when Elvynd managed to get his surroundings into focus, even if only for a moment or two, and as soon as his eyes fastened on the buildings that were visible some distance away from him everything came back to him with the force of a great wave hitting a stony beach.

The beautiful, delicate buildings blurred together with every other heartbeat, but even so Elvynd had no trouble identifying them, no trouble at all. This was Rivendell, realm of Lord Elrond Peredhil, the place where his family had found refuge after the destruction of Eregion. Here he had been born, had found his best friend, had climbed his first tree, had subsequently contracted his first elbow fracture, had made his first sword. Rivendell. The Last Homely House. Imladris. _Home_.

Suddenly, all pain and mind-numbing exhaustion was pushed to the side as adrenaline flooded his system, enabling him to grasp a few more or less coherent thoughts as firmly as he dared for the first time in several days – who knew, if he tried too hard, he might actually destroy what little of his wits he had still left. He had made it, the Valar only knew how. He was home and he had managed to survive all the obstacles a malicious fate had thrown into his way. Under different circumstances, he might have laughed aloud. He had made it.

His exultance dimmed a little, mainly because of the renewed pain that had once again awoken in his throbbing shoulder once his horse began to move faster. His head clearer than in a long time, Elvynd would almost have taken a look at the wound he knew to be there, hidden under the soiled bandages, but self-preservation or simple fatalism stopped him in the end. He didn't need to take a look at the wound to know what it looked like. He had seen enough infected wounds to last him a few human lifetimes, and he really did not need to see another, let alone in his own shoulder.

All thoughts of his wounds were driven from his mind when the mantra that had kept him awake and alive these past days once again flittered through his mind, causing him to clench his jaw in sudden determination. _Get to Rivendell, tell Lord Elrond what happened._ Well, he'd managed to do one part, he'd be damned if he failed at the second.

They were closer now, almost in sight of the gates, and Elvynd forced himself to cling to consciousness with a tenacity he had thought he had lost more than ten days ago, when those accursed humans had killed his men. 'Yes, think about that,' a tiny voice inside his head encouraged him. 'Focus on the anger. Only a little longer now. Focus!'

Stifling heat once again seemed to wash over him, but the young captain found himself shivering nonetheless. Disjointed thoughts and images flittered through his badly battered mind, and the sheer pain and grief they brought with them was enough to push away the oh-so-enticing darkness once more. Those men had already killed Cuilthen and the rest of his warriors, and he would be damned thrice over if he gave up without a fight!

The shadows were lengthening now, painting the most bizarre and unnatural shapes onto the dark path beneath his horse's hooves, and when Elvynd found that he couldn't keep his head upright much longer he allowed his eyes to fix on them instead. He would not give up now, he swore to himself while he looked at a shadow he was just passing to his left that looked to his fevered mind just like a tiny orc. He would _not _give up, not now, not when he was so close to his goal! He was still a Captain of Imladris, no matter how badly and completely he had failed his men and the trust Lord Elrond had placed in him. He would warn his lord about the danger to the south, even if that was the very last thing he ever did.

The world grew darker and fuzzier around the edges, and with a strange sort of weary acceptance Elvynd realised that it _would _most likely be the last thing he ever did.

Before he could follow this train of thought any further, he heard some sounds he finally, after several moments, identified as voices, and ever so slowly he finally raised his head again. The gates seemed to have taken a giant leap forwards and were now right in front of him. To the same degree as his hearing was deteriorating with every laboured breath he took his sight seemed to improve, and so Elvynd had little trouble seeing the elves that were peering down on him. The faces he could see clearly looked as if they had just seen a ghost, or at least a Nazgûl in a pink robe who was riding a giant rabbit.

Whatever were they looking at, Elvynd thought testily as he drew closer and closer to the gates that were the only thing that was still separating him from his home. Couldn't they see that his horse was close to collapsing? The least they could do was help the poor beast.

It was actually quite funny, the dark haired captain thought dreamily while his exhausted horse carried him through the gates of Rivendell. He had never actually seen that particular expression of complete surprise that the guards had worn on another elf's face – at least not on another elf's face who had lived. The shivers that shook his body only increased, making it harder and harder for him to cling to his horse's mane. Cuilthen had looked just the same when the arrow had hit him, just as surprised and horrified.

Grief once again washed over him, and only the knowledge that he wouldn't open them again should he give into the temptation now prevented him from closing his eyes. Oh, how he had failed his warriors, his brave, loyal, fearless warriors! _They _had never failed him, never, and the only mistake they had ever made had been to trust him to bring them back home alive.

The commotion around him grew with every step his horse took, and after only a few paces he was surrounded on all sides by elves he couldn't remember ever seeing in his entire life, all of them looking at him as if he should know them. There was the dim knowledge that he _should _in fact know them, or at least most of them, but it was getting harder and harder to think, almost as if his mind was stuck in some sort of quicksand. He couldn't hear them, could hear in fact nothing at all, but the sight of them talking without him hearing a sound was enough to nearly send him into a hysterical fit of laughter.

His horse slowed and finally came to a full stop, and with more than a little surprise he realised that Fuifilig was standing in front of the large stairway leading up to the main house. The animal stood almost completely still, shudders of pure exhaustion running through the large body now and then, and Elvynd was once again angry at all the other elves around him for only talking and not doing anything to help his horse that had so faithfully borne him here.

Even against his will Elvynd found that the utter and complete blackness he had been fighting off for so long was now pressing against what was left of his barriers and shields, and in the moment his body relaxed in the knowledge that he was finally safe, he knew that he was lost. Exhaustion, pain, grief, anger and a thousand other things washed over his mind, and the young elf found the tiny bit of control which he had managed to preserve disintegrating like snow in the sun.

His senses dimmed and were finally swallowed up by the darkness that was laying itself over his mind, first hearing, then smell, taste and touch. He didn't hear the noise of the elves around him, did not smell the odour of his infected wound or tasted the bitter tang of his own blood on his tongue. The feeling of the hands that were reaching up to steady him was receding, too, leaving him comfortably numb and carefree. He felt how the last bit of his strength disappeared, draining out of him without warning, and his body began to sway from side to side, the exertions of the past days catching up with him.

Sight was the last sense to abandon him, and so the last thing Elvynd saw before the darkness swallowed him completely was his lord who appeared on top of the stairs, slightly wild-eyed and with his long hair dishevelled, as if he had run to get here as quickly as possible. He, too, was saying something; his lips were moving but the younger elf couldn't hear anything at all.

Elvynd tried to hold on to consciousness, fought against the darkness with all his might to fulfil this last duty, to tell his lord what he knew, but it was a battle he could not win. The light dimmed and finally went out altogether, and Elvynd eventually stopped fighting with a desperate cry that only he could hear.

It was so very fitting, wasn't it, he thought hazily while darkness overtook him and pulled him down into a bottomless abyss from which there was no escape. He had failed his men once again, and this time he wouldn't get another chance to somehow make up for it.

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There were times, Reod thought darkly, when he really thought the Gods had a sense of humour. That, as such, wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing; the only problem was that they didn't have a normal sense of humour. Theirs tended to be more … ironical, and malicious.

Very, very malicious, in a way that could get poor, unsuspecting mortals killed. Thrice over, if they were not careful.

It was, in fact, the only thing that would possibly explain why he was once again back in the cellar, the positively last place where he wanted to be at the moment. And only one day after he had sworn to himself never to set foot here again, too! Reod shook his head, not really knowing whether he should feel annoyed or truly angry. He might have been right from the very beginning. The Gods might truly have been displeased about them having killed the rest of the elves and were right now punishing them for their deeds.

Well, that might have been a tiny bit overstated, the captain thought wryly. At the moment, they were punishing _him_. Gasur was most likely having a jolly good time, and so were most of the other man's lieutenants.

Reod slowed down even more, now moving at a speed that was more befitting a footsore snail than a captain of Lady Acalith's forces. He did not want to be here, he did not want to deliver his lady's message (couldn't she get one of the servant boys to do something like that?) and he most certainly did not want to see Gasur. Or the elf, for that matter. No, the captain thought darkly. _Especially _not the elf.

The chestnut haired man took a deep breath and firmly told himself not to act like a spoiled child. It didn't matter whether or not he wanted to be here. It was not his place to question his lady's orders or tell her which people she ought to chose to carry out the tasks that needed to be done. It didn't matter whether or not he wanted to see Gasur or the elf – he wasn't supposed to be their friend or even have a conversation with them. It was his duty, no more, no less, and the sooner he got used to the idea of having to see both of them at once, the sooner he would get the chance to get out of here.

For a moment or two, this seemed to pacify the part of him that wanted nothing but turn around and walk back the way he had come. Turning around would look stupid, yes, and maybe even cowardly, but that part of him didn't care as long as he didn't have to look at Gasur and see that dark, insane sparkle in his disconcerting, light brown eyes. Everything was better than that, including public humiliation – if it didn't go too far, that was.

And besides, it wasn't that he would simply walk into the cell while the two of them were sharing a cup of tea or were playing a game of cards. He had been in his line of work for too long and had seen too much to harbour any doubts about Gasur's intentions, and he had a fair idea of what was going on in the elf's cell at the moment.

Reod frowned once again, looking up and realising with some relief that he had still some moments left until he would reach his destination. For a moment he was actually glad that Gasur had decided to … "interrogate" the elf in another room of the cellars and not in the dark haired being's cell – the latter would apparently have been "too small". It would take him at least another minute to reach it, ample time for him to return to his dark thoughts.

He was by no means a squeamish man, and had more than once employed rather … uncompromising means to ensure that someone told him all he desired to know. He wasn't innocent in any way and had more than enough blood on his own hands, but that didn't mean that he _enjoyed _such things. They were necessary from time to time, and in his view nothing that was to be lamented overly much or considered a shame of any kind, but taking pleasure in torturing other men was nothing but weakness in his eyes.

Besides, it was a damned messy business, and while he might enjoy the exhilaration of battle and everything that came with it as much as the next warrior, he did not like being splattered with blood unnecessarily. He never ceased to be astonished about how much blood there was in a man's body – or in an elf's, in this case – and had more than once cursed his opponents for dying so messily. If he had to be here – which he did, that much he had already accepted – he did not want to have to think about how to get the elf's blood out of his clothing.

Inwardly steeling himself, Reod picked up his pace, moving down the dark, empty corridors. It was only a few hours past noon, around the third or maybe the fourth hour, but there was virtually no one to be seen, not even a single servant. Not that he could blame them, the captain thought to himself. Listening to someone else cry out in pain was not everyone's cup of tea, and even some soldiers he knew flinched at such occasions. Servants had, as a rule, a much weaker stomach, especially the women, and he was glad that none was to be seen. He was a man who had few morals and convictions, but one of them was that there were some things that were not meant for the eyes or ears of women.

The empty state of the cellars notwithstanding, two guards were still positioned outside the door of the room in which he knew Gasur and his prisoner to be, Reod noted with something akin to amusement when he turned the last corner. All doubt he might have harboured about the question whether or not the Gods possessed a vicious sense of humour and wanted to punish him fled from his mind in a second when he realised that they were in fact the same guards he had encountered yesterday.

Reod almost closed his eyes to block out the sight of the two men, who had to be cave-trolls in human form, at least judging by their intelligence (or rather the lack thereof). He would pay money, lots of it to be precise, if this day would simply end, right here, right now.

He finally accepted that that would most likely not happen and walked up to the two soldiers who were doing their best to simply stare straight ahead. Reod wasn't sure if they wanted to ignore what was going on behind them or in front of them, and, right now, he couldn't have cared less. The two of them were stupid morons, and the sooner a pair of hostile, accommodating soldiers went ahead and cut their throats, the better.

The captain finally stopped, only a few feet away from the thick wooden door, and when neither of the two said anything and they merely gave him a hasty salute, he couldn't contain the disbelief that spread over his face. He was fully aware of the fact that the men feared Gasur a lot more than him – and who could blame them? – but only a pair of fools would make the same mistake twice in only two days, would they?

Reod waited for a few heartbeats, giving them the chance to open the door by themselves, but the soldiers merely stared straight ahead. A dull thud suddenly echoed through the dim corridor, seemingly vibrating through the very walls, quickly followed by a muffled sound that might have been a quickly bitten-off cry of pain, and Reod found his patience disintegrating completely. He didn't have to be a mind-reader to guess what that sound had been, and felt absolutely no desire to stand here and listen to things he did not wish to hear.

"Are we really going to have to go through this annoying conversation _again_?" he asked the older of the guards, one reddish-brown eyebrow arched incredulously.

The two guards exchanged a quick look, _the same look as yesterday_, and Reod sent a quick prayer to the Gods for patience. Whatever had happened between yesterday and now, these two hadn't become any smarter. The older man finally looked back at him, uncertainty radiating off him in waves.

"Sir, we…"

"If your next words aren't 'We hear and obey, Captain', I will rip out your vocal cords and strangle you with them," Reod informed the guard, smiling friendly. "Do you understand?"

However stupid the two guards might be, they were not suicidal. Crossing Captain Reod when he was in this kind of mood was usually a grave mistake; it never paid to underestimate him, especially not when he was looking at you like this. A second later the two men had stepped aside and the door swung open, and Reod brushed past them, inwardly asking himself just which idiot had recruited the two of them. If he ever found out, he would make the recruiter regret it. Dearly.

All such thoughts drained out of him when the door closed behind him and his eyes had grown accustomed to the comparably bright light that filled the cool room. There were only two people present in the almost empty, quadratic room, at least only two that he could see, and for a moment he was surprised that Gasur hadn't allowed more of his friends and/or subordinates to accompany him. The surprise lasted only for a moment when he remembered the obsessed, dark sparkle in the other captain's eyes that had been present during their last conversation. This was a treat for Gasur, something to be cherished and enjoyed, and he wouldn't allow any more people to share this than he absolutely needed.

If anything, Reod's mood became even darker, even though he could not really say why. This was what he had been expecting, wasn't it? Before he could find a definite answer to that question, one of the two men moved to the side, and only now Reod saw that there was in fact a third person in the room, bound to the wall by thick, rusty chains. Reod took a deep breath and did his best to suppress the fear that welled up inside of him when he identified both the being chained to the wall and the man who was just taking a step backwards. The only two beings in all of Middle-earth he feared, both together in this room. This day simply couldn't get any better.

The second man who was standing next to a small, rough wooden table turned half around, giving him a look with gleaming eyes that very clearly stated that he was intruding on something. Reod glared back evenly, almost daring the younger man to say something, but Gasur's lieutenant didn't do him that favour. He simply averted his eyes after a moment and returned his attention to the scene in front of him, dismissing his presence as if he was nothing but an annoying insect.

Reod's glare became even darker, and he decided in a split second to find out this one's name and see to it himself that he was punished for his disrespectful behaviour. Even while he was thinking this, he knew that he would never do it. It pained him to admit it even to himself, but he was afraid of Gasur, and would never provoke him by doing something like that. He lacked both the courage and the recklessness for it, and that was a bitter realisation indeed.

Gasur, it seemed, had not noticed his arrival, so caught up was he in what he was doing. The dark haired captain was right now cocking his head to the side, studying his captive with fascinated interest, and Reod followed his example, frowning after a second. He did not know what he had been expecting, but the elf was looking … well, rather unscathed until now, if one could say that. Reod knew for a fact that Gasur had entered the cellars around noon, having been unable to get away from his duties earlier, so he had been half expecting to find the elf in several pieces – literally speaking. Never mind what Gasur had promised their lady, he _was _angry, angrier than he had ever been to Reod's knowledge. And it was the elf who was to blame.

Well, "unscathed" might be the wrong word, he amended a moment later. The elf looked still as battered as he had been yesterday, and there were fresh bruises and abrasions visible on his half-uncovered torso and his arms. He had also acquired a rather spectacular looking black eye and a split lip from which blood was still seeping down his chin, apparently unnoticed by both him and Gasur. Reod couldn't immediately see with what else Gasur had occupied his time these past hours, but then he saw the trickles of red that sneaked down the elf's chest and arms. Amidst the bruises, almost invisible due to all the other damage, there were cuts, and deep cuts by the look of it. Reod snorted inwardly. He didn't know why he was even surprised. Gasur's fixation with his knives was well known, after all.

"…it really isn't so hard," Gasur informed his prisoner in a silky tone of voice, drawing Reod out of his musings. "Just answer my questions and all this can be over. It is your choice."

The one eye the elf could open blinked slowly, and Reod shuddered inwardly at the amount of undisguised hatred he could see in the dark orb.  
"You … expect me to … believe that?"

The smile that spread over Gasur's face was equally chilling, and if Reod hadn't had his orders, he would have turned around and left this place as quickly as possible.  
"I don't expect anything from you, _elf_, except maybe a scream or two. You have been remiss in that regard, I fear."

"Keep … dreaming."

"Oh, I will," Gasur informed the dark haired being friendly. "The sun will not go down for another two or three hours. We have time, lots and lots of time."

If Reod had had any doubts that Gasur was well beyond anything that could have been called sane in any way, he would have reconsidered his opinion in exactly this moment. It wasn't the words that surprised him, it wasn't even the state the elf was in, it was the air of contentment and pure pleasure that emanated from the oh-so-ordinary-looking man in front of him. He had known that Gasur was a twisted, sadistic excuse for a man, but he had never actually seen him indulge in what he undoubtedly considered a hobby.

It was, Reod concluded, not something he had ever wanted to see.

Gasur, still unaware of his fellow captain's presence, cocked his head to the other side and looked at the elf who was merely staring at him, hatred and almost invisible pain in his eyes. The silence continued until Gasur obviously tired of waiting for his captive to give him an answer, and only now that the younger captain took another step to the side did Reod what exactly Gasur had been doing these past few hours.

One of the elf's hands, his right hand, Reod noticed emotionlessly, was not chained above his head like its counterpart, but rather lower, just below the shoulder. For a moment, Reod was confused, not really able to see what purpose this might be serving, but then he took a closer look at the elf's hand and suddenly understood. The fingers were swollen and disfigured, and even a man who did not know much about healing such as himself could see that they were broken, and quite badly so if he wasn't very much mistaken.

"So," Gasur went on, looking and sounding rather bored, "This is getting old, isn't it? Don't misunderstand me, _elf_, this has been a lot of fun, but breaking one finger after the next is not quite as amusing as I thought it would be." The dark haired man tapped one of his fingers against his lips, obviously thinking hard, and added, "Then again, it might be funny to start again, so to speak. Don't you think?"

Reod's eyes slowly wandered to the large, mallet-like implement that the lieutenant was just handing back to the other captain, and he couldn't help but wonder how Gasur had managed to hit anything with some extent of accuracy with it. It looked far too big to be controlled efficiently, but then again, maybe Gasur had some experience with it. Yet another thing he didn't really want to know.

"I have made the mistake of underestimating your kind once," Gasur stated while he took the tool from the younger man. "I won't make the same mistake twice, elf. Let's see how dangerous you are when I'm finished with your hands, shall we?"

Reod understood in a split second what Gasur was planning, and while he was most certainly not naïve or inexperienced, he found himself cringing inwardly. Having one's fingers broken was unpleasant enough, but having one's _broken _fingers broken again was worse. There were things he did not want to see unless he absolutely had to, and this was most certainly one of them, he decided, the paralysis that seemed to have laid itself over him disappearing from one moment to the next.

"Gasur," he began evenly and took a step forward. "I need to have a word with you."

The dark haired man's head whipped around, surprise and anger clearly visible on his face. It wasn't completely clear whether the captain was angry about having been surprised or angry at himself that he _had _been surprised, but Reod didn't care overly much either way. Fact remained that Gasur was angry, and that was never a good thing, especially when he was in this kind of mood with this kind of light shining in his eyes.

"Reod," Gasur finally drawled, turning back around to his prisoner, apparently dismissing the other captain's presence as unimportant. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No," Reod shook his head, his eyes moving through the room in the vain hope of finding something inoffensive to look at. There was no such thing, as he quickly discovered. "No, I have not."

"A pity," the other man commented evenly, grinning at the chained elf and slowly trailing a finger over a line of dried blood on the dark haired being's face. "You could have so much fun." He drew back a little, his fingers tightening on the wooden club. "I'll be there in a minute."

"No," Reod protested sharply, putting all the courage and pride he still had left into his words. "Not in a minute, Captain. I need to have a word with you, outside. _Now_."

The grin seemed to freeze on the other man's features, but a single look at Reod's face told him that he was serious indeed. Realising that there was no way he could ignore the other captain's words, especially considering that Reod _was _the serious captain here, he finally ground his teeth and forced his face into a carefully neutral expression, nodding at the elven prisoner once before half turning around.  
"I'll be back in a minute, don't you worry, elf. I suggest you use the time to think about your unnecessarily unyielding attitude."

The elf only stared at him unblinkingly and said something in that strange tongue of his, but even though Gasur did not understand what he was saying, he did not have to be a mind-reader to realise that he was being insulted. Quicker than Reod's eyes could follow, he turned back around and closed one of his hands around the dark haired being's throat. His fingers slowly began to tighten around the elf's neck while the man watched how his prisoner struggled to draw breath, and a rather disconcerting smile spread over his face.

"Careful, elf, I would be very careful if I were you. There is always time to continue with your other hand, after all."

There was pain in the dark haired elf's eyes, growing panic at the inability to draw breath and an overwhelming rage that seemed to fill most of the grey orbs, but even despite the steely hand that was still wrapped around his throat his voice was calm and even when he spoke.  
"You are … repeating yourself, _móradan_."

Gasur did not answer immediately and only continued smiling at him, but then he released the elf's throat and seized his right hand with a quick movement. Reod was sure he could hear a grating sound when the other man's hand closed around the mangled fingers, and even the stoic elf couldn't suppress a muffled cry of pain when Gasur squeezed hard. The dark haired man kept up the pressure for only a few moments, but when he stepped back, the elf was gasping for breath, his face chalky white and his eyes closed tightly.

"You will yet learn, elf," he said friendly, matter-of-factly. "It might take a while, but in the end, you will learn."

Without another word Gasur whirled around, his point clearly made, and strode out of the room, followed by a thoroughly annoyed Reod. The older captain breathed a silent sigh of relief when the door closed behind them, shutting out the dark atmosphere that filled the room. That relief was rather short-lived, however, because as soon as they had exited the room and walked a few steps down the corridor, Gasur rounded on him, his eyes blazing.

"I hope you have a good reason for this," he hissed at his fellow captain. "You heard our lady yesterday; the elf is mine today!"

"I do not contend that," Reod assured the other man, watching the light brown, furious eyes very closely and making sure not to move too quickly. It was like facing down a wild animal, he thought to himself. One just mustn't make any sudden moves. "I am here on behalf of Lady Acalith. Our mistress."

"I know who she is," Gasur ground out between obviously tightly gritted teeth. "Tell me what you have come to say, but tell me quickly."

"Don't worry, the elf won't be going anywhere," Reod commented lightly, but his attempt at humour went unheeded by the other man who simply continued staring darkly at him. "Very well," he finally added. "I assume he hasn't told you anything?"

Gasur narrowed his eyes at the other man, clearly searching for some sign of mockery or criticism, but there was none to be found. Reod wasn't completely suicidal, after all.  
"No, he has not," he admitted after a moment. "At least not yet. He claims that he does not know what I am talking about."

Reod nodded, not surprised at all. He would have been positively astonished had the elf changed his mind and co-operated in any way.  
"Has it ever crossed your mind that he could actually be telling the truth?"

Gasur gave him a strange look and raised a dark eyebrow.  
"Does it matter?"

"No, probably not," Reod admitted. 'Probably not to you, anyway.' "Our lady has anticipated this development. She wants to see you – and whichever of your lieutenants you wish to involve – an hour after sunset. She is in a meeting with the council now and will speak with us afterwards. As long as you cannot provide any proof that the Lord of Rivendell suspects anything, the plan stands. It is time to set it in motion."

"If the elf – or his lord – knows anything, I will find out," Gasur vowed quietly, the fire in his eyes burning only stronger, if anything. "He will tell me everything he knows in the end."

"And that is the problem," Reod nodded, trying to lighten his words with a small, ironic smile. He could have spared himself the trouble, he realised a moment later. Gasur really did not possess an ounce of a sense of humour. "We cannot afford to wait until you've broken him. We will simply set the plan into motion and hope that we moved too quickly for the Elves to do anything about it, even if they do know something."

Gasur stared at him for several long moments, apparently waiting for an opportunity to take offence at his words, but then he nodded unwillingly.  
"Very well. You can assure our lady that I will be there. Now if you'll excuse me…" he trailed off and gestured into the direction of the cell. "It would be most rude to keep our guest waiting, wouldn't it?"

Reod frowned inwardly, once again surprised at how much he hated this man and the way he could make him shiver in fear with only a sentence or a look.  
"Most certainly," he nodded, more than a little bit eager to get rid of the other man. "By all means, don't let me keep you."

Gasur didn't seem to hear him, and even while he was still speaking the last words the younger captain had turned around and all but rushed down the corridor, the door opening and closing behind him within moments. Reod stared after him for a second, wondering how a man could move so quickly, but then decided that that, yet again, was something he did not want to know.

With a last, dark look into the direction of the two soldiers who were standing guard in front of the door Reod turned around and walked down the dark passageway, carefully suppressing the urge to run.

No matter how quickly he went, it wasn't quick enough to outrun the muffled sound of pain that filtered through the heavy wooden door behind him.

**  
****  
****  
**

Elladan ignored his own confusion, anxiety and concern for a moment and allowed himself to feel amusement, smiling at Glorfindel's restlessly pacing figure. He had never before seen someone who could pace using only half a leg, but the golden haired elf managed to do so quite admirably.

Then again, Elrond's oldest son thought to himself, Glorfindel wasn't as much pacing as he was hobbling. He may be hobbling gracefully, he was ready to admit that, but hobble he did nonetheless. It was no wonder, too. It was remarkable that the blond elf lord could even stay on his feet, considering that his broken ankle was still far from mended.

And he wasn't only staying on his feet, Elladan admitted with grudging respect. He was pacing from the closed doors that led to the healing wing to the sculpture at the end of the corridor and back again, and had done it for the past hour or so, precisely ever since they had been thrown out by his father and the rest of the healers.

Elladan grinned inwardly, leaning back against the wall without letting the closed double door out of his sight. His father had overreacted, of course – he often did when he was concerned about his patients – but even he was willing to admit that Glorfindel was a terrible mother hen when he was worried. A big, blond, hovering mother hen that was always in the way of the healers and apprentices and did not even try to make itself useful.

His grin quickly disappeared a moment later, and only partly because Glorfindel chose this moment to whirl around and glared at him so darkly that even Elladan was impressed. He had no idea what was going on here, and that was something he did not enjoy at all. He could remember only a few times when he had been more confused than today. No, he amended a moment later. He could remember _no _time.

Elvynd was here. He wasn't complaining about that, mind you; he'd always liked the other elf. There was of course the matter that Elvynd might very well still die. But that was the problem, Elladan thought, frowning in confusion. Elvynd was supposed to be _dead_. He distinctly remembered that man telling them that the entire delegation they had sent south had been killed, _including _Elvynd. Valar, he had even been there when his father had handed the young captain's sword to his grieving parents!

Elladan frowned again, this time openly. Elvynd's parents had left a few moments ago, thankfully. The captain's father had been pale as a wraith but composed, while his wife had been very close to a hysterical fit. Elladan could not blame her. He didn't know how he would react should he find out that one of his children, whom he had thought to be dead, was not, after all – or not yet. He was, however, sure that Elvynd's father would be back as soon as possible. The only thing he was hoping at the moment was that the older elf wouldn't return to receive the news that his son had died after all.

The older twin watched Glorfindel turn around at the door and hobble back the way he had come, a scowl on his face that would discourage even the bravest elf who would seek to engage him in conversation. It was clear that the golden haired elf was at least as anxious and confused as he was, and understandably so. Elvynd was one of his captains, after all, and besides, what did all this say about the rest of the delegation? If the dark haired captain was alive, even if only barely, then some of his men might be, too. Maybe, just maybe, of course, even Erestor.

Elladan chanced another quick look at the pacing elf in front of him. Seldom had he found himself wishing for something more fervently; if there was one thing he wanted at the moment, it was that Glorfindel and his own father would be spared the pain of losing one of their best friends. Then again, he thought to himself darkly, what if Elvynd awoke – if he ever woke up at all, that was – to tell them that there had been no other survivors? What would Glorfindel do then? Elladan shuddered slightly. He had seen the carefully hidden hope in the elf lord's eyes which he was undoubtedly trying to squash at the moment; he did not want to be there when Glorfindel was told that it had been a vain hope and nothing more, not for all the mithril in the world.

While he was still pondering this, the huge doors opened slowly and a slender, red haired figure stepped through the gap, wiping her wet hands on a once white apron. Elladan tried hard not to think of why she would need wash her hands and jumped to his feet, not even noticing the by now familiar stab of pain that ran through his hip and leg. Glorfindel, too, moved to step next to him, and for a moment the two elves merely stared at the small healer, neither of them willing to be the first to break the silence.

It was Glorfindel who finally shook his head in an unwilling gesture and opened his mouth to speak, something that surprised Elladan more than a little bit, since Glorfindel was usually the one who could outstare even a dragon. Then again, he amended after a moment, maybe he wasn't surprised at all, considering the other elf's recent behaviour.

"Well?"

Gaerîn lifted her shoulders eloquently and shrugged, lifting grey eyes to look at the two anxious elves in front of her.  
"I don't know how he made it here. Anybody else would have the sense to be dead by now."

"So he isn't?" Elladan asked when he had sufficiently recovered his ability to speak.

"No, he isn't," the red haired healer shook her head, a small smile on her face. "He is still fighting, even though Eru alone knows if that will be enough. He lost a lot of blood and the infection…" She trailed off, and added quietly, "It's bad. Very bad."

The two elves bowed their heads simultaneously, unable to think of anything to say, and Gaerîn took a deep breath, stepping slightly to the side.  
"Lord Elrond bid me tell you that you may come in for a few moments, but only for a few moments. And only if you promise not to be in anyone's way."

She did not wait for them to say anything, knowing full well that, right now, they would have promised about everything, and turned back around. A moment later she had disappeared inside the healing wing, and Elladan exchanged a quick look with Glorfindel before he pushed the door open a little further and followed her inside.

It took them only a few moments to reach Elvynd's bed, and even if Gaerîn had not guided them, Elladan would have found the bed without any problems at all. It was a narrow bed at the far side of the large room, right in front of a large picture window, and about two-thirds of Rivendell's healers were crowding around it. Every now and then Elladan thought he could see a glimpse of his father's face or a bit of his elaborately braided hair, but only when they had almost reached the wounded elf's side did the mass of healers part slightly, offering them an unobstructed view on the dark haired elf lord.

Gaerîn stopped and waited for the two still wounded elves to catch up with her, and as soon as his son and seneschal reached the red haired healer's side Elrond looked up, his eyes surveying both of them closely. Prompted by something only he could see, he returned his attention to the elves around him and nodded seriously at them, addressing one of the older elves Elladan recognised as a master healer.  
"Thank you for your assistance. I will watch him for now. Should I require any assistance, I will let you know."

The healers only nodded their heads, knowing when they were being dismissed, and turned to leave, taking with them various healing utensils, basins and unused herbs and bandages. Gaerîn, too, inclined her head at her lord, gave the utterly still figure lying in the bed a last look and turned around, leaving the three elves alone, standing in front of the narrow bed.

For a moment, none of them spoke, but then Glorfindel slowly took a step forwards, stopping at the foot of the bed. His eyes fixed on his wounded captain before he turned his head, looking at Elrond in a manner that was so intense that it was almost painful.  
"What in the name of all the Valar happened to him, Elrond?"

The half-elven lord simply took a deep breath and shook his head, slowly walking over to a basin filled with faintly reddish water. He began to wash his hands, and Elladan noticed with calm detachment that the water was of an almost blood-red colour once his father removed his hands again. It was in stark contrast to the far too pale colour of his face and even his arms, and the sight was enough to make Elladan feel definitely sick to his stomach.

"I don't know, _mellon nín_," Elrond admitted softly, inspecting his fingers and once again plunging them into the already red water when he realised that there was still some blood on his hands. "I simply don't know. All I know is that it is a miracle that he made it so far. He rightly should have been dead by the time he reached the Ford."

Elladan tore his eyes away from his father's blood-covered hands and took a step closer to the bed as well, almost reluctantly looking down on the still elf occupying it. There was not much to see of him, he realised a moment later. Most of Elvynd's pale face was disappearing under a crisp, white bandage, and the blankets that had been draped over him hid the rest of his body. Even despite the thick covers and the warmth that emanated from a fireplace nearby, the elf had already begun to shiver, and sweat covered what was visible of his uncovered flesh.

"Ilúvatar," the older twin breathed softly, almost unable to recognise the elf he knew in the pale, thin, motionless figure in front of him. "Who did this to him, _ada_?"

"I don't know, Elladan," Elrond shook his head, drying his hands with a towel. "Somebody tried to split his skull in two, using something that must have been an extremely heavy sword. Even with all my skill he might keep a scar from that; it's simply too deep and has been left untended for too long. What is killing him, however, is the infected arrow wound in his shoulder. I have spent the last few hours digging the head out of the wound, and I pray to the Valar that the strain wasn't too much for his body to bear. I will not lie to either of you. It is a bad wound."

"So he will die?" It was Glorfindel who asked this, his voice far too quiet and emotionless for Elladan's taste.

"He might," the other elf lord nodded seriously. "There are limits to what I can do, my friend. If he had arrived sooner, even if only a day … it might have changed everything. I cannot tell you with certainty, Glorfindel. All we can do is try to get his fever under control and pray that he is too stubborn to join his ancestors in the Halls of Mandos."

"If it depended only on stubbornness, none of your warriors would ever die," Glorfindel said darkly. "One of them is worse than the other."

Elladan ignored the fair haired elf's words and turned to his father, disbelief on his face.  
"But you must know something, _ada_! He cannot simply have risen from the dead, ridden here to then collapse in front of the house! Has he said anything?"

"No," his father shook his head. "He has not regained consciousness since he was brought here. Right now I cannot say whether he will ever regain consciousness at all. His fever is high, far too high even for an Elda. There is one thing I _can _tell you, however " Elrond went on calmly, ignoring the impatient and disappointed expression on his son's face. He turned to Glorfindel and gave him a curt nod. "You were right, my friend. The humans were lying, knowingly or not."

Glorfindel's emotionless face became even more emotionless, and even Elladan shivered a little at the aura of cold menace that suddenly seemed to emanate from his old teacher's body. He suddenly found himself hoping that they would never see Tibron and his companions again. He had the very bad feeling that Glorfindel would not react well to such a reunion; the golden haired elf was probably currently contemplating something involving dismemberment and pain and blood.

"How so?" The fair haired elf's words were soft, almost inaudible, and Elladan winced inwardly. Oh yes, dismemberment and lots of pain and blood.

"The arrow broke off in his shoulder," Elrond explained calmly while he was absent-mindedly shifting flasks and small jars on the table next to the bed. "I think he tried to remove it himself, but did not manage to get it out completely before the shaft snapped. I have the arrow head right here," he began to search through the chaos on the small table, "and it is unlike any orc arrow I have ever seen."

Elladan took the offered fragments of wood and metal before Glorfindel could reach for it. In his current state of mind, the elf lord might just crush it into fine powder in a sudden fit of fury or something like that. Glorfindel, not to be deterred, stepped closer, peering over the younger elf's shoulder, and for a few seconds the two merely stared silently at the arrow head in Elladan's hand.

"That," Elladan finally began calmly, "would be because this is no orc arrow."

"What a coincidence," Glorfindel nodded next to him, the friendly tone of his voice being belied by the dark, dangerous sparkle in his eyes. "That was what I wanted to say as well."

Elrond looked at both of them exasperatedly, sending a silent prayer to the One to give him patience. He had spent the past hours doing his utmost best to keep a supposedly dead elf from dying again, a fight he had nearly lost several times. He had poured as much healing energy into the young captain as he could spare – more, really – and that was, maybe, the worst thing about it. No matter how much he had sent, it had seemed to be swallowed up by a dark, bottomless hole, leaving him with distinct feeling that he might as well have thrown it out of the window.

In short, he was in _no _mood for pleasantries.

"No, it isn't orcish, and before you say it, yes, it is human," he told his son and seneschal testily. "Captain Elvynd was ambushed by humans, even though that makes even less sense than before."

"It doesn't matter," Glorfindel stated calmly, ignoring his friend's dark mood with the ease only long practice brought. "I don't care whether it makes sense or not. The humans have lied about one thing; they might have lied about others, too. They might still be alive."

Elrond shook his head tiredly and tried to ignore the headache that was once again pounding behind his temples. If he did it right, he might rile Glorfindel enough so that he would cut it off for him.  
"Be reasonable, Glorfindel. What are the chances of anyone else still being alive?"

"I don't care about the chances!" Glorfindel snapped at the other elf lord, but then took a slow, deep breath to calm himself. "I am sorry, my lord, but I simply do not care. How many times have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? How many times have we prevailed against impossible odds, how many times have we lived when no one would have given a single coin for our survival? How many times, Elrond? You and I should have died a thousand times by now, and yet here we are, very much alive. _They might still be alive, Elrond_!"

"Yes, they might be," Elrond agreed softly. "But they very well might not be."

"That is a chance we will have to take," the golden haired elf proclaimed matter-of-factly. "Do not deny me this, Elrond. Let me go and look for them."

Elladan looked from one of the older elves to the other, doing his best to blend into the scenery. His father and Glorfindel seemed to have forgotten that he was even here, and if he was perfectly honest, that was just fine with him.

"No," Elrond finally said with finality. "Hear me out before you do something rash," he added after a moment, seeing the other elf's unwilling headshake. "I will not let anyone go anywhere without knowing what we are dealing with. I said that Captain Elvynd might never regain consciousness, but I did not say that he never would. I will give him time to wake and tell us what happened. He has made it this far; he will certainly not give up now."

"How much time?" Glorfindel asked in a pressed voice.

"Tomorrow," the dark haired elf answered promptly. "If he hasn't regained consciousness by sunset tomorrow, I will let you go. Not a minute sooner."

Glorfindel stared at him without saying anything for a rather long time, but Elrond was not in the mood to make the first step again. For a few moments, Elladan thought the golden haired elf would say something, most likely something that should better not be repeated in polite company, but then, to the twin's mild surprise, he simply shook his head and smiled thinly.  
"You speak wisely as always, my friend, and I will heed your words. Elladan, could you please bring Gaerîn here while I take your father to his rooms?"

The thus addressed elf blinked, having the distinct feeling that he had just missed something important, but the question that was on his lips was never spoken since his father interrupted him before he had even opened his mouth, a mixture of disbelief and amusement in his eyes.  
"Excuse me?"

"I will take you to your rooms," Glorfindel repeated calmly, as if that was the most logical thing he could have said in this situation. "You need rest."

"I need what?" Elrond repeated incredulously, daring Elladan with a single dark look to carry out Glorfindel's command and actually leave to find the red haired healer. "Since when exactly are you my father?"

"Since the moment you started swaying on your feet," the fair haired elf retorted almost smugly. "Varda's domes above, look at yourself, Elrond! You are as pale a wraith and twice as hollow-eyed! If you don't sit down in a minute, you will fall flat on your face for sure!"

"And you know that because…?"

"Oh, please, my friend." Glorfindel almost rolled his eyes. "I need not be a healer to see it. I _know _you, Elrond. I have seen you like this countless times. You have given too much, and if you do not rest to replenish your strength, you will be fatigued for days."

This time, it was Elrond who stared at his friend, and Elladan was once again surprised by how much alike the two of them were. He didn't even want to think about who had rubbed off on the other.

"Please, _mellon nín_," Glorfindel took a small step forward, looking imploringly at the dark haired elf in front of him. "Do not be unreasonable. You are dead on your feet and you know it. You have given the young one all you can spare and, if I am not very much mistaken, more besides. There is nothing more you can do at the moment, least of all half-asleep. We will watch him for you tonight, Elrond, and should anything unexpected occur, I swear to you that we will fetch you."

Elrond took a deep breath and finally shook his head, a small, resigned smile on his face.  
"You know me too well, my friend. You will notify me should his condition change?"

"Should Gaerîn detect any change at all, we will send for you," Glorfindel affirmed. He turned to Elladan who had been watching the whole scene, a smile on his face he was quick to hide. "Elladan, could you..."

"I will fetch her," the older twin affirmed, already turning around. "She must be around here _somewhere_."

"Oh, I do not doubt that," Glorfindel nodded darkly. "Look at the ceiling, _pen-neth_. If you find a large shape hanging upside-down from it, wrapped in a cocoon of its own wings, you will have found her."

Elladan almost choked on barely suppressed laughter and began to hurry into the direction where he had last seen the red haired she-elf. Behind him, his father admonished Glorfindel for his disrespectful words, only to be interrupted by the older elf who told him to be quiet because he was no better himself, behaving as recklessly as one of his sons.

The smile that was on his lips faded quickly, however, when he remembered Elvynd's white, almost translucent face and the way he had looked when he had arrived here, half-dead and covered with so much blood that Elladan had been sure there could not be a single drop left in the wounded elf's veins. A grim, angry determination began to spread inside of him, and Elladan found himself narrowing his eyes in sudden fury.

If Glorfindel didn't kill Tibron and the other men outright, he would make them regret having ever lied to them, that he swore by Eru Ilúvatar himself.

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TBC...

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_yén (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
móradan (S.) - 'Man of Darkness', a rather deprecatory term for a human  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
pen-neth (S.) - young one_

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So, I didn't kill Elvynd - yet, that is. •g• Who knows what will happen to him? •thinks• Well, now that I think about it, I know, and my alter ego, but that's entirely beside the point. •evil grin• Anyway, next chapter we'll see more of our dear, confused Rivendell elves, someone may or may not arrive there, our intrepid heroes make another appearance and so does a certain evil lady we all love to hate. Fun all around, eh? •g• As always, reviews are appreciated, printed and used to decorate my room. So, review? Please?

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**Additional A/N: **

**HarryEstel -** Ah well... •trails off• I think that might be the understatement of the century. •g• And yes, Elrond did see Elvynd. Very good! Here, take a cookie. •offers cookie• Well done! •g•  
**Lynn-G -** •blushes• Thanks a lot. I'm glad you liked the little (rather depressing) scene. And Elrohir has indeed something on his mind, namely Erestor's "death". I think that he, as the more "quiet" and "scholarly" (even though I only use such terms with caution) twin, would be more deeply affected by his teacher's "death". I guess he liked/-s him quite a lot. Hmm, and let's just say that Elladan might accompany Glorfindel. Oh, don't look at me like that! You know I'm evil, you can't be expecting me to actually TELL you something, can you? •g•  
**Alilacia -** Does this mean you are doubting my words? •outraged• I DO like fluffy animals! It's my alter ego who forces me to write about other things, really! •innocent look• LOL, you're right, sometimes I really have the feeling that Aragorn has no idea what the word "tact" means. Somebody ought to explain it to him sometime... •g• Uhm, what? •blinks• An army of black squirrels who nibble you to death? That sounds rather ... interesting... Deeply disturbing, but interesting... •g• Oh, and you're right about Johnny Depp, of course (my God, he looked •awesome•! Then again, he always does... •g•), but that wasn't meant to be a serious film. "Alexander", on the other hand, is to be taken seriously. That was the director's intention, anyway... •g• The wine wasn't all that strong, though, at least I don't think so. It was just normal Rioja or Cabernet or Chianti or something like that... •shrugs• I can't really remember. •g• Oh, and why are you contemplating to buy a guidebook when you can just download cheats or a walkthrough? There are tons of sites out there where you can download such things for free!  
**KLMeri -** Very good. •gives you a cookie• You noticed all my not-so-subtle hints. Well done. It's indeed Elvynd, poor elf that he is. •pats his head• Don't worry, I won't hurt you anymore - much. •evil grin• LOL, yes, you're right, whether by torture or old age, Aragorn WILL die one day. My money's on torture, though, or simple idiocy and recklessnes. Or stubbornness. Btw, I have no idea who's more stubborn. I guess Glorfindel - he's older and had more time to practice. •g• Oh, and when exactly did I say that Elladan wouldn't be hurt? Let's not be hasty... •g•  
**InsanePirate624 -** Well, it wasn't THAT evil. There are worse cliffies to come, never fear. •evil grin• I hope seven days aren't too long? That is, seven days if FF-net doesn't go bonkers again. It's not working as I'm writing this, so I can only hope. •g• Thank you very much for taking the time to review!  
**Red Tigress -** Uhm, I don't know. Why you're asking, that is. I, too, thought we had established that I am without a heart and generally evil and insane... •g• LOL, and yes, I am indeed not planning to include any torture in the nonexistent chapter 20 (or something like that). Sounds about right. •g• Oh, and don't worry about the review. It made perfect sense, which probably only emphasises the fact that I am completely mad. Ah well. Whatever. •g•  
**Barbara Kennedy -** You have? Really? I didn't know that there were such things as black squirrels? I mean, I've only ever seen grey and red ones. I always thought Tolkien had only invented them for Mirkwood... Interesting. I want to see one. I need a new pet. •g• Oh, and yes, I would worry if I were you. Humans or woodpeckers - that's not much of a difference! •g•  
**Lady Lunas -** You know, you are absolutely right! Only Elrond hasn't been injured - something I intend to remedy in the near future... •cackles evilly• Uhm, yes, well, you never heard that. •g• And you are right again: It's indeed Elrond. Well done. Have a cookie. •offers cookie• The way this is going at the moment, I'll be out of cookies before the end of the reviews. Blast. •g• I'm afraid I can't tell you who will be tortured, even though Aragorn and Legolas are a safe guess. •g• I'm very glad that you like this story so far - and dislike the villains. Thank you very much for your kind words - and for your review, of course!  
**Beling -** Please believe me when I say that I very much appreciate your reviews. They're not boring at all, so stop saying such things. •stern look• Understood? Very well. Oh, and I am sure that the twins and Aragorn have seen Erestor's look a few times. Being as reckless and idiotic as they are... •shakes head• Poor Erestor. LOL, Acalith is really a tiny bit egotistical, now that I think about it. Then again, most truly beautiful people are. •g• Generalisations are fun, aren't they? I'm glad you like the whole Wood-elves/Teleri versus Noldor thing. If you look at their history, the conflict is always there, more or less openly. It's no wonder though - the Noldor are generally more skilled and educated than the Sindar, even Tolkien said so! •looks around her quickly• I really hope Legolas isn't anywhere nearby... •g• And I really don't know if I'm that much fun to be around. People who share my sense of humour think I'm funny enough - mostly, that is - but then again, not everybody values sarcasm. •shrugs• The cliffy wasn't THAT bad, was it? I really hope you didn't spent too much time in "agony". •g• Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Ithiliel Silverquill -** Well, I do my best to update once a week. I don't know if I can update today - as I'm writing this, FF-net is suffering from a HTTP Server Error 503 - but I'll definitely try till around 1 a.m. my time or so. Then I'll give up, though. •g• And I don't like elf lord torture (meaning Glorfindel or Elrond or Erestor) all that much either. That's why I didn't really write it. It just feels ... wrong. •shrugs• Don't tell me, I'm weird. •hands you a cookie• Well done. Yes, it's Elvynd whom Erestor saw. And Glorfindel really isn't very happy at the moment. You're psychic! •g• Oh, and telling Fuifilig something like that isn't going to do much good, I'm afraid. I, too, know that the spiders are more afraid of me than I am of them. I'm still terrified of them! It's pathetic, really...  
**Sadie Elfgirl -** •beams proudly• I am evil incarnate? Really? You mean it? Thanks! •huggles• That's SOOO sweet! •g• But it wasn't really two cliffies. It was more like two half-cliffies, if that makes any sense at all. They were really not that bad. Quite nice, actually. •g• Oh, I hated the end of RotK. I never liked the whole "everybody dies and they'll never see each other again" thing. Very much not nice. •g• So you think Legolas was serious about the squirrels, huh? To be honest, I don't really know. He has a strange sense of humour, that's for sure. •g• I hope this update was really, REALLY soon, and thanks a lot for the review! •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway -** "Alexander" really is kind of ridiculous. I have to admit that, as a romantic, I liked the scenes between Alexander and Hephaistion. Then again, they did overdo them a little. Just a little, though. •g• •rubs shin• Ouch! Whatever was THAT for? Your feet are apparently indeed very violent, but ... •grabs chainsaw• I have a remedy for that! Which one do you love more? •evil grin• And yes, I AM insane. •g• Oh, don't worry, FF-net has been screwing with my reviews, too. They don't only hate you, they hate me as well. Good to know, isn't it? •g• Nice acting, btw. •hands you another award• Well done. Nice speech, too. •g• A lot more interesting than the Oscar speeches, that's for sure... I'm glad that you're still enjoying this story, thanks a lot for all your reviews! •huggles•  
**Bookworm85 -**Well, the three-headed flesh-eating ravenous squirrels are from "Everlasting", the story before this one. I think it was something Erestor said, but I think it was originally a quite from Glorfindel. •nods after a moment• Yes, that would explain quite a lot, actually. Oh, and here •hands over a cookie• you were right. It's Elvynd. Congrats. •g• Elladan is indeed a clever elf. •pats his head• We'll see if his master plan will actually work ... later, that is. •g•  
**Crippled Raven -** I'm impressed! You remembered the three-headed flesh-eating ravenous squirrels! And I always thought that, in Britain, there were only red and grey ones? I only ever saw the grey ones. And they're supposed to be evil because they kill the red ones, but that might be nonsense. Just something somebody told me. •g• •wide-eyed• "I'm a little teapot", huh? That sounds like something that would happen to me. Even though it would probably something much worse, like a a Spicegirl song or something like that... •shudders• And you liked the talk between Legolas and Aragorn? Really? I really thought it was quite depressing. I never like to write such talks. Too ... dark, if that makes any sense. LOL, don't pretend to be nice and innocent! Of course you want Erestor to get hurt! And more than a little, too! •shakes head• You can just admit it, you know... I am the Mistress of cliffies and misdirection? Really? Oh, thank you! That's such a nice thing to say! •huggles• You just made my day. •g• Oh, and I agree. Gasur IS insane. He has a good reason though, trust me. And I love that quote about Alexander! It's just SO true! He really was a wimp, btw, even though I really have no idea why the Greeks would be upset. The real Alexander was most certainly bi-sexual (come on, people, most Greek or Macedonian men were back then!), but he was no Greek. He was Macedon. Most Greeks, and especially the Athenians (oh, and the Thebans, and... •g•) hated him. Trust me, if you had mentioned his name in front of Demosthenes, he would have started to foam at the mouth. I really don't get it.  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure -** Oh, you told me many EVIL things. Honestly, I have never heard such language before, NEVER! •waits for a moment• Is she strangling you yet? Yes? Ah, being evil is SO much fun... •g• Oh, and I think I'm just like you. I laugh all the time, too. The worst thing is that I can't cope with people getting hurt. When one of my friend (or anybody else, for that matter) gets hurt in any way or somethign sad happens to them, I don't know how to react and what to say and so I start grinning. It's horrible, and I don't mean to, but I just can't stop! •shakes head• I'm evil, I know. LOL, I guess Arwen did fall off once or twice. Then again, their behaviour might have something to do with the Y-chromosome. If so, Arwen got lucky. •g•  
**Washow -** First: Please don't think that I would take offence at being criticised. I really want to be told what I'm dong wrong so I can fix it - most of the time. •g• It doesn't help me if everybody is laughing at me and I have no idea that I even made a mistake. So, thank you very much for telling me these things. It's definitely not a flame, and I am really grateful that you thought about all these things. Okay, so let me try to explain a few things. Elrond let Aragorn go because it's only a broken wrist. You can ride with a broken wrist and more or less defend yourself with a broken wrist. A broken/cracked hip is in fact a very serious injury, even if you are young and healthy. Even today the mortality rate is quite high, due to blood clots, pneumonia, or infection, and, even if treated correctly, can lead to the patients being unable to return to their pre-injury level of activity. I have honestly no idea if an elf can develop pneunomia or blood clots, but I still think that it would be a rather serious injury. Besides, riding with a hip injury is painful at best. The same goes for riding with a broken ankle, with or without stirrups, at least in my - allbeit limited - experience. I am also not completely sure about Aragorn's ability to fight left-handed, but in every kind of martial arts or sword fighting I know you are being taught to do everything with your left arm/hand/leg from the very beginning (something that seriously annoys me in Tae Kwon Do, to be honest •g•). So I guess he would be - after more than ten years of practicing, I guess - able to fight with his left hand. Okay. The Elvynd thing. It's a little hard to explain without a map, but I'll try. Aberon is locatedA at the confluence of the Bruinen and the Mitheithel, on the eastern side of the Mitheithel, therefore Rivendell's side. Donrag is located on the other side of the river, on the western side, that's why Erestor & Co. crossed the river at Aberon. So they were ambushed there, and the river Elvynd crossed on his way home was the Mitheithel, meaning that he was following the western shore of the Bruinen. Aragorn, Legolas & Co., on the other hand, are travelling directly to Aberon, and are therefore travelling on the eastern side. Since I am guessing that most of ME would be quite densely forested at that time, it would have been quite hard for them to meet. And the Glorfindel thing: I might explain the whole Glorfindel-slipped-thing. I am still waiting for the right moment. And I checked the whole "alright"/"all right" thing and have to admit that you are right. I never knew that alright was a "spelling not yet considered acceptable". I'll try to remember that from now on, even though a few "alrights" might pop up here and there. Old habits die hard. Once again, thank you very much for this review!  
**TrustingFriendship -** Yeah, I have to admit that he will indeed not be able to explain everything right away. He's had a rough couple of days. •g• It's indeed a good thing that Elladan and Glorfindel are already more or less back on their feet. They'll need them soon enough. •g• Oh, and their swords. And maybe their brains, too - I'm not sure about that yet. •g•  
**Katie -** LOL, very interesting! "Dramatic tension dictates that I make Aragorn's life as miserable as humanly possible"? Very interesting indeed.... Now that you say it, you might be right, of course... But if I did what you suggested, I might end up with several elf lords after my blood - I'm really not sure if that's such a good idea... •g• You really DO have a sadistic side, you know. A very sadistic side, even. •g• And no, I haven't seen the EE of RotK - yet, that is. I WILL see it though! Nothing shall stop me! •shakes fist• So, I'll promise you that I'll try to be mean to both of our intrepid heroes. Jack has been bugging me for years, anyway, so I'll have to do something quite evil! Never fear! And I might write that Celylith-Legolas story one day in the future. When I have a little time to spare. Around 2007.  
**Golden Elf -** Ah, that's a good thing. You're supposed to hate Gasur - he's the villain, after all. •g• Hmm, I see. I shall endeavour to ensure that Erestor will at least be able to open his eyes once Glorfindel finds him. I can't promise you anything, of course. Gasur is quite angry at the moment. •g• Don't worry about Elvynd, he's at the gates all right. If he's going to be saved, however... •trails off• Ah well, we'll see. •g• And don't worry about Aragorn. Nothing will happen for him for a few days yet. •evil grin• Oh, and I seriously hope you didn't think any bad thoughts about me all week. •g•  
**Arrina -** No, I guess the cliffy wasn't all that nice. Lots of fun, though. •evil grin• It's very nice to hear that you like Reod, even though I really don't know what to do with him yet. I don't want him to appear to nice and sympathetic, which is really hard because he hates Gasur and everybody else does, too. •sighs• Ah well, we'll see. And you are right, Erestor •might• have a death wish. Silly elf. •g•  
**Kenzimone -** LOL, yes, Erestor torture is not all that common, I'll admit that. You can blame - or thank •g• - my evil alter ego for that. Or my fairness - why would I only torture Glorfindel and never Erestor? It would be very, very unfair. •g• I am very glad that you're enjoying this so far, and hope you'll like the next bit - yes, the torture •g• - too! Thanks a lot for your review!  
**Jazmin3 Firewing -** Okay. Fine. I get it. •dies• •ghost appears• So now what am I supposed to do? I can't type like this, you know ... •tries to touch the keyboard• See? It's all your fault! •g• And yes, I realise I have suffered a relapse. My friends from Cliffy-writers-Anonymous won't be happy at all... •g• And yes, Elrond really saw Elvynd. Well done. Have a cookie. •gives you large cookie• I really couldn't bring myself to burst your bubble. I am a nice person, after all. •g•  
**Lil Cwick -** Wow, you really read all of the others first? I'm very impressed! That must have taken quite a while... It's great to hear that you enjoyed all the other stories, too, and hope you'll like this new piece of madness as well! Thank you for taking the time to review!  
**Elvendancer -** Oh, I am the middle child, too. I am constantly being ignored, which is most likely also because I really don't like to quarrel with my family. With everyone else, sure, but not with my family. •shudders• I don't like familiy arguments, no, precioussss.... •g• Hmm, I don't know what Reod would think if he met Glorfindel. It's an interesting idea though. Tolkien always said that "the Light of Valinor" was in the Noldor's eyes and on their faces, at least on the ones of those who had seen the Blessed Realm, but does that also count when the elf in question was reborn? And besides, Glorfindel might have been born in ME. It's rather unlikely, but entirely possible. I'll have to think about that. •g•  
**Enigma Jade -** LOL, so you want some Erestor ... ANGST, huh? Well, I hope you'll enjoy the little bit of ... ANGST I put into this part. •g• And your guess is correct! Give that woman a cookie! •random elf appears with a large cookie• Well done! It's indeed Elvynd. Poor elf. •pats his head• And I really would put him into a bed first before locking him into a closet. He just might not survive something like that at the moment. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel -** Well, I guess that it is •possible• to like the films if you like Sean Bean. I always tend to laugh at the most inappropriate places, however. •g• Yes, I AM evil. And I know! I would NEVER write torture! I don't know why all these people would think so! Really, the mere thought makes me shudder. •shudders to prove the point• See? •g• Oh, and Jack is a friend of mine. She's just as evil and insane as I am, and sometimes helps me to come up with evil things to do to our favourite heroes. •hugs Jack and licks her shoulder - DON'T ask• She's a good friend - Philnili, so to speak. Once again, don't ask. •g• I have to agree with you, however: Erestor really is quite stupid. Perhaps it's the lack of food and water? •shrugs• Who knows? LOL, Gasur is a "creepy little sadistic monkey"? That's a rather accurate description! •g• And yes, this was a VERY long review! Thank you! •huggles•  
**CrazyLOTRfan -** Great you liked the cliffy. At least someone does, then. •gives rest of readers dark look• What, you can still remember that talk from THOM? Wow, I actually needed some time to figure out which one you meant - I'm impressed! And I would be scared to death if somebody told me that story as a bedtime story! I am already beginning to look at squirrels in an entirely new way... •g• LOL at that mental image! I can just imagine that scene... Aragorn: Arwen, dear, please come back down here. Arwen: No. Aragorn: Please, darling, clinging to the weather vane of the Tower of Ecthelion is no acceptable behaviour for a Queen of Gondor! Arwen: No. Aragorn: ARGH! •g• I guess she's just as stubborn as her brothers... And yes, it's Elvynd. Good guess. I don't think I have any more cookies, otherwise you'd get one now. •g•  
**Soulinlondon -** •blushes• Thank you for all your kind words! That is in fact the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time! I am, however, making lots of mistakes, I'm afraid. I have just been informed that "alright" is a non-acceptable form of "all right" and therefore incorrect. Blast. •g• Oh, and I hated PJ for that, too! I mean, I actually don't hate Arwen or anything - which is rare around here, I know - but come on! You can't do something like that to •Glorfindel• of all people! •shakes her head• That was really evil. It's great to hear that you're enjoying this insane little story so far, thank you very much for your great review!  
**Marbienl -** What?! I really like flower and fluffy animals! •shakes head• Why doesn't anyone believe me... Oh, and I am not planning on making Erestor an assassin type! I always thought Orlando Bloom was stupid to draw such a comparison. Fits. •gets stoned by Orlando Bloom fans• Ah well, sorry. I didn't mean to insult him - much. •g• Be that as it may, "my" Erestor is no assassin. Period. Sorry. •g• And ... •grabs Reod before he can be damaged too much• Sorry, but I DO need him. At least for a little while, so hands off. And there might/will indeed be more to Gasur's and Acalith's relationship than meets the eye. I'm not completely sure yet, but it's a definite possibility. •g• And you know what? I might become a history professor or something like that. Who knows. •g•  
**Elvingirl3737 -** Hmm, "Erestor is in for a not too cool time in the fairly near future" is in fact a rather nice way of putting it. You're being very diplomatic. •g• And you might be right, hugging Glorfindel is not such a good idea at the moment. I don't think he would appreciate it overly much. •g• And thanks again for the star! I would have loved to have that monkey too, though! •g•  
**Crystal-Rose15 -** Uhm ... well ... I'm sorry? I had no idea he would use that chair to actually HIT you... •cringes• Igottagobye. •g• LOL, thank you very much for the bottle of Perrier, the movie 'Whale Rider', and the nice shiny trophy reading 'Awarded To The Author Who's Work Has Been The Source Of Many Laughing Fits, As Well As States Of Open-Mouthed Shock, Denial, Nail-Biting Nervousness, And Thousands Of Other Emotions Associated With FanFics. It's all greatly appreciated. •g• Oh, and I guess that only Mirkwood's squirrels are carnivorous - if Legolas is telling the truth, that is. You never know with these wood-elves. •g• •huggles you again• I really hope that you will have a great time! Enjoy your stay, and visit Hobbiton for me! •g•  
**JMercuryuk -** Hmm, well, yes. It's indeed Elvynd. •searches for a cookie• Well done. Congrats. Whether or not he will tell them what happened, however... •trails off• Well, we'll see, won't we? •evil grin• So "Serious Erestor torture" is fun, eh? •shakes head• And people always tell me that •I• am evil... I really don't get it. •g• Oh, and touché, btw. I really ought to write a story with only Aragorn or Legolas in it. One day I might actually do it. •g•  
**Grumpy -** Yeah, Legolas got him. I guess he knows more about the secret vices of Mirkwood's population than the poor, ignorant ranger... •g• Indeed, will Elladan convince his father to let him go? Or won't he? •smiles enigmatically• That's an interesting question, isn't it... •evil grin•  
**Elitenschwein -** Ja ja, das kenne ich. FF-net ist mein ganz persoenlicher Todfeind. Irgendwie habe ich das ungute Gefuehl, dass denen das vollkommen egal ist. •g• Schoen, dass dir das kleine Aragorn-Legolas Gespraech gefallen hat. Ein bisschen Reden schwingen duerfen muessen sie ja auch ab und zu mal. •g• Gut geraten mit Elvynd! Gebt der Frau einen Keks! •Elb kommt und gibt Keks• Bitte sehr! •g• Kinder kann ich ehrlich gesagt auch nicht sonderlich leiden, darum gibt's hier auch schon das naechste Kapitel fuer dich armes Wurm! •knuddelt•  
**Ventinari -** Well, the least I can do is warn my readers. This way, they can't sue me. •g• Oh, and as unhappy as I am to admit it, Elrond's vision was indeed quite mundane. Nothing more than a "you are needed at the gates, stupid Peredhel", I'm afraid. Still, even that kind of visions can come in handy. •g• Erestor is indeed not having much fun, but it could be worse. Don't ask me how, but it could be. •g•

**Well, I really hope I didn't miss anybody. With FF-net going bonkers again, it's entirely possible that I missed a review. If that should be the case, I hope you'll not be too angry. It's not my fault - at least this time! •g• **


	18. Wiser Than We Were

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

A/N:

Okay, let's begin with a little announcement. Always remember not to kill the messenger, okay? •takes deep breath• Okay. I am having three written exams in a few weeks, namely around the 15th of February. I also have two papers to write that are due around the same time, and therefore no time at all. No, don't panic, I WILL post next week on Wednesday as usual, but I really can't see myself having the time to write anything in the next few weeks. So I must regretfully inform you that I won't be able to update after the ... let me see ... 2nd of February, at least for a while. I think it's possible that chapter 20 (yes, it just had to be the infamous chapter 20, hadn't it? •g•) will be here around the 20th of February, but I really can't say for sure. I promise to do my best to update quickly, though. Really. •g•

I am also very glad that all of you like Gasur so much. •ironic grin• He really IS a sweet, sympythetic person, isn't he? Remember, it all depends on your point of view. •g• We will, however, find out why he hates elves so much, probably in chapter 20. Yes, it IS a coincidence. •evil grin•

Okay, I'll shut up now and let you read. This chapter is a little bit longer than my usual 15-17 pages, mainly because Erestor wouldn't shut up. He's not feeling all that great at the moment, so I guess we shouldn't be too hard on him. So, we have a little conversation between said elf lord and a certain evil lady, our heroes & Co. reach Aberon, and Gaerîn is having a bad day. So is everyone else in Rivendell, now that I think about it. •g•

**Have fun and review, please!**

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**Chapter 18 

At least they had brought him back to his old cell. Even though he was in no mood to feel gratitude towards his captors for anything, especially at the moment, he was thankful for that small, almost insignificant fact.

If they had indeed put him into another cell, one that was completely bereft of light and air and therefore of hope, he was rather sure that he would have gone mad by now – ifhe wasn't mad already. He wasn't all that certain about that at the moment.

It all depended, Erestor thought detachedly, on how you defined "mad". He knew that he, as a scholar, should know at least a dozen definitions in at least a score of languages, but right now he could not concentrate very well on anything, least of all on something like that. It was this inability to focus on something he would have been able to do in his sleep no more than two weeks ago that was in fact scaring him most at the moment, and he therefore tried his best not to think about it too much.

In the long years of his acquaintanceship and then friendship with the slightly unstable blond elf whom Elrond had appointed his seneschal ignoring certain things had become something at which he was very good.

The dark haired elf smiled inwardly. He sometimes likened their relationship to that of a child and its father who was always trying to look out for and discipline his charge, even though he was never all that certain about who was who. Right now, for example, he could not have said which one of them was worthier of reprimand, he for getting himself into such a situation or Glorfindel for falling for that … woman's tricks.

If he hadn't been in so much pain, he would have shaken his head only a moment later. He was a fool to even think something like that, a fool and worse things besides. Glorfindel may be many things, among them annoying, arrogant and incredibly vexing, but he was not an idiot, and neither was their lord. Neither of them would have believed that they were all dead, only because a random human had appeared on Rivendell's doorstep and shown them their weapons.

At least that was what he believed their plan to be, Erestor amended a moment later, acknowledging the second thing that seriously bothered him at the moment. He had really no idea what these humans were planning, or even what they wanted from him. The questions he had been asked yesterday didn't make any sense at all, at least not to him, and he hadn't even lied to the men when he had told them that he had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. They had to be aiming at something with their disjointed, unreasonable questions, but he simply couldn't concentrate long or hard enough to figure out at what. He just didn't know what they wanted to hear from him, and that was what was beginning to make him feel more helpless than he had felt in a long time.

That fact, however, might just as well be connected to the fact that, yesterday, a certain insane, deranged individual had tried to rearrange the bones of his right hand. Whether or not it had been meant as a temporary arrangement or a more prolonged one, he was not completely sure, but he did not care either way.

A sudden shiver raced over the dark haired elf's back, setting his body alight with pain all of the sudden, and he had to bite down onto his lower lip – hard – to prevent himself from making a sound. He knew that the guards outside the door would most likely not hear him even if he should get up and sing the most long-winded ballad he could remember, but that did not mean that he would moan in pain. Whether or not they actually heard him was of no consequence.

And besides, he thought darkly, concentrating very hard on getting the tremors under control that had begun to shake his frame, he had given Gasur more than enough satisfaction yesterday. The dark, satisfied, _sated_ glint in the captain's eyes had been the last thing he had seen before he had finally lost consciousness – something he would have welcomed quite some time before that, mind you – and the mere memory was still enough to make him feel decidedly sick.

The Valar knew that he had tried. He had tried so hard to remain silent and not show the man how much pain he was really in, but he had failed in the end, when Gasur had started to try and crush his hand into a formless mass. In the beginning, it had not been _that _bad, he guessed, at least not according to the new standards he was developing at the moment. Breaking one's fingers was never pleasant, surely, but he was old enough to have broken his fingers a few times, in accidents and things of the like. He knew that kind of pain and knew how to deal with it, even though the pain of five broken fingers was most certainly worse than he had ever imagined.

What had been his undoing, however, was the fact that that had not been enough for Gasur. He was quite sure that he had never felt pain as sharp and intensive as when the dark haired man had begun to break his already broken fingers again, and the only thing for which he thanked the Lady of the Stars was that he had managed to lose consciousness before he had lost himself in the pain. Crying out in pain was one thing, falling to pieces in front of your tormentors was quite another.

Deciding that battling the uncontrollable shivering would only sap his already much depleted strength, Erestor finally gave up and leaned back against the wall, wincing openly when the chain that bound his manacled hands to the wall pulled slightly at his right wrist. Under normal circumstances, that movement wouldn't have classified even as remotely painful, but right now it felt as if something vicious and big-teethed was sinking its fangs into his hand and was beginning to devour his limb bit by bit.

He slowly turned his head and looked at his hand, partly to reassure him that it was still there. He knew from Elrond that, sometimes, limbs that had been amputated or become otherwise severed from the body hurt their owners many years after they had lost them. Not even the half-elven healer could explain this phenomenon and had simply accepted it as one of life's great mysteries – other less open-minded people like an overwhelming percentage of Middle-earth's human population would undoubtedly link it to demons, sorcery or things like that.

His hand, however, was still there, Erestor realised a moment later, and asked himself instantly if that was really such a good thing. He might be a bit inflexible and old-fashioned, but he had certain established, clear-cut ideas of how a hand was supposed to look like. There were exceptions, surely, but there were ways a hand had no business of looking like.

This, he concluded airily, was one of them. He had tried to straighten the mangled fingers as best as he had been able – and had lost consciousness at least twice in the process – but he was no healer. He had no idea how successful he had been, but if he were to judge by the way his right hand was looking right now, he would say not very. The fingers were red and swollen so much that they might have belonged to a cave troll, which also made it hard to say whether or not he had straightened them correctly or incorrectly.

Elrond would know, Erestor decided wearily, but he did not. All he could see in his swollen, maimed right hand was a picture of a bleak future, a future in which he was unable to hold a quill or wield a blade. A future that, if he was completely honest with himself, was becoming ever more unlikely, and not because he thought that he would somehow be getting out of this town. He would not live long enough to need to concern himself with such things.

The only good thing about it was that his hand hurt so much that he could almost forget the other wounds that decorated his body. The cuts stung slightly now and then, but the bruises and abrasions simply faded into the background in light of the agony that throbbed through his hand with every quick beat of his heart. Holding the injured limb completely still did not really seem to alleviate the pain either, and so there was nothing he could do but bear the pain and try to ignore it.

Ignoring it, however, was very difficult, since his thoughts insisted on straying into the most distressing regions of his mind. Nothing that had happened to him in the past two weeks classified as a happy memory, and whichever corner of his memory his mind turned to, all it found was helplessness and grief and fear and anger. These emotions had been coursing through him for so long that he didn't even know what it was like to feel any differently, and that, even more than his inability to concentrate or his helplessness, was the one thing that was almost enough to drive him mad. He had seen what such emotions could do with an elf if they were given enough time to take hold and fester, and he had absolutely no desire to end his life in the same state of mind as several of the most prominent lords of the Noldor.

Above it all, however, was the image of that man, of Gasur, standing in front of him, gloating and taking pleasure in his pain. He had never been a soldier, even though he had been in more than one battle himself, and he simply had no reference for such things. He expected such behaviour from orcs and other creatures of the Dark One, but not from Men. He was not an elf who thought very highly of the Second People, and certainly not of those who were not of the three houses of the Edain, but not even they should harbour such traits and desires.

He couldn't understand Gasur, no matter how much he tried. It wasn't that he just wanted to understand him; he _needed _to understand him, needed it almost as much as he needed to escape from this Valar-forsaken place. He needed to discover the reasons for the man's deranged behaviour, needed to somehow fit it into the great scheme of things into which every occurrence had fitted until now. This eternal state of confusion was sapping his strength and weakening his shields in a way he couldn't even explain to himself. There had to be a reason why Gasur and his lady were doing these things, there had to be a reason for such mindless cruelty. No being could be capable of such acts without very good motivation, could they?

Erestor was no stranger to cruelty and malice and all their many forms and kinds, and had seen his fair share of blood and destruction over these past ages. And yet he had distinct problems believing that all this was real and indeed happening to him. It began to feel more and more like a bad dream, or like a story Glorfindel or one of Elrond's sons would tell, the kind of story that was entertaining but just unlikely enough to be smiled upon.

That he would find himself in one such story was something that astonished, annoyed and bewildered him to equal parts. He made a mental note to ask Glorfindel what one was supposed to do all day, chained to a wall with nothing but spiders, dust and pain to keep you company. Maybe there was a guidebook somewhere in one of Rivendell's vast libraries that told you exactly what to do if imprisoned by a bunch of megalomaniac humans. Considering the frequency with which this seemed to happen to a large number of Imladris' inhabitants and their allies, it would not surprise him in the slightest.

Erestor was still contemplating whether or not such thoughts were normal in his current situation – he was beginning to lean towards the opinion that they were indeed – when the sound of heavy steps could be heard, drawing inexorably closer to his cell. He found it hard to tell, especially since he was once again having trouble concentrating on anything but the stabbing pain in his hand, but he was rather sure that it was the footsteps of at least five men, if not half a dozen or more.

If he hadn't already been shivering, Erestor was sure he would have started to now. He was an honest enough elf to admit to himself that he was not only afraid anymore, he was rather close to terrified. He had absolutely no experience with dealing with such situations, and he needed to call upon all his self-control and willpower to stop his uninjured hand from shaking. He might be close to losing what was left of his composure, but he would most certainly not do it in front of these humans. If he chose to surrender himself to panic and turn into a quivering, formless mass on the floor, he would do it when there were no witnesses around.

The creaking sound of the opening door cut his musings short, something which he did not overly lament since his thoughts were in the habit of being strangely weird lately, and a moment later bright light poured into the small space, seeming unbearably bright to his sensitive eyes – or rather his one eye that was not swollen shut at the moment. Erestor had just enough time to notice that he had been mistaken and there were at least eight guards outside the cell when three of the humans already rushed into the small room, moving far too quickly for his pain-numbed brain to follow.

Whether or not they didn't want to give him time to get his bearing or simply wanted to get this over with as soon as possible he did not know, but all such thoughts fled from his mind anyway when he felt himself being pulled to his feet. He hadn't even tried to stand up since he had been thrown in here yesterday evening and was therefore rather surprised that he actually could stay on his feet, but his surprise was short-lived since one of the guards chose just this moment to grab his right hand and began to open the manacle that bound him to the wall.

Bright, white light exploded in front of the dark haired elf's eyes at the rough handling of his injured limb, and all strength he had left and which he might have employed to resist these humans drained out of him quicker than he would have thought possible. Only the memory of that gloating, gleeful sparkle in Gasur's eyes prevented him from crying out in pain, and so he merely bit his lip while two of the men removed the metal shackles around his wrists and bound his hands behind him, nearly wrenching his arms out of their sockets in the process. He had thought it impossible for the pain to increase even more, but while one of the men was binding his wrists in a decidedly ungentle manner, he found himself only one step away from losing consciousness.

Losing consciousness was quite an attractive idea now that he thought about it more closely, but he would be damned if he would give these humans that satisfaction. He might be becoming more and more like Glorfindel or Estel and the twins, but he would not simply cave in and show these people how wretched he felt. And, Erestor added, clinging to the spark of anger that awoke in his heart in the moment the man behind him tied the last knot, he would find a way to get out of here and rip out these men's hearts, that he vowed by Elbereth's stars. They would regret their actions before the end, he would make sure of that.

The renewed anger that coursed through his veins gave him enough strength to stay on his feet and glare at the men that were waiting outside the door while he was being manhandled out of the cell. One of humans seemed awfully familiar, but only after he had been pushed down the dark corridors for quite a long time did he remember that he was in fact the lieutenant Gasur had had with him last night, the one with the perpetually stupid grin. The grin was still there, Erestor noticed thoughtfully while the man half-shoved and half-dragged him down the passageways and then up a flight of stairs which he knew he should remember.

Still, the man didn't look half as cocky now, without a mallet in his hand and when his victim was only bound by leather straps. He wasn't the only one who was looking slightly nervous though, Erestor noticed with something that, in previous life, might have been amusement. The other humans appeared to be decidedly ill at ease, even though Erestor knew better than anybody else that the men's concerns were unfounded. He barely had the strength to set one foot in front of the other, and the last thing he would be capable of doing right now was attempting some sort of escape attempt or attack. What did they think he would do to them, he asked himself darkly, bite off their noses?

That would, in fact, be quite an amusing tactic, Erestor thought to himself, vainly trying to memorise the way they were taking. He had lost track of the exact route two turns ago, and even if he hadn't, he very much doubted that he would ever get into the position to put such knowledge to use. No matter how positive your outlook on life was, you simply couldn't expect to get out of a situation such as this one without help.

Help – yes, that would be quite nice right about now, the councillor mused almost dreamily while they rounded another corner and he was pushed forward once more, into the direction of a large, wooden double door that looked very familiar even to his slightly foggy brain. He could use a little help at the moment, ideally in the form of a large, ill-tempered elven army led by an even more ill-tempered Glorfindel. Even though he would never admit this to his fair haired friend, he was a sight to behold when infuriated, and he would love to see what Gasur would do when faced with an elf lord that wasn't bound and helpless.

Erestor was still entertaining himself with very pleasant visions of Gasur being torn limb from limb when the doors opened and the two soldiers standing left and right of him took his arms and hauled him over the threshold. Pain once again flared to life in his right arm and hand, and unbeknownst to him, Erestor turned several shades paler while he once again bit down on his lower lip to stifle the sound of pain that was already on the tip of his tongue. He only had a few seconds to compose himself before he was pulled to a stop in front of the large, wooden chair at the back of the room. It took Erestor a moment until his eyes had travelled up the carved sides of the chair and had fixed on the person occupying it at the moment, but he was in no particular hurry. He knew exactly whom he would see.

As he had thought it was the woman, Acalith, who was sitting in the chair, still looking like a beautiful child that had curled up in its father's chair. By now, however, Erestor wasn't fooled anymore by this woman's apparent innocence and beauty. She was, in fact, climbing in giant leaps up his list of people he wanted to see die a horrible, slow, painful death, even though she was still a long way away from the top. That place was occupied by Gasur, and nothing save divine interference would dislodge the madman from there. Speaking of which…

Erestor took a small, almost undetectable breath and slowly and very purposefully looked to the left, straight at the rather ordinary-looking figure of Gasur, who was standing to the right of the young woman's chair, looking a lot like a lazy, content cat that had just caught sight of a mouse that had managed to escape from it once. The dark haired elf felt how anger mixed with the fear and dark memories that were rising inside of him at the sight of the captain, and he glared at him for all he was worth. He was an elf lord thousands of years older than these children who thought they knew and controlled everything, he was Lord Elrond's chief advisor and his friend, and he would be damned if he resigned himself to the role of a rodent without fight or argument.

Neither the older man he had seen the last time he'd had a … talk with Acalith nor the other captain whose name Erestor thought to be Reod was to be seen, something that surprised Erestor more than a little bit. Especially the elderly man had appeared important and was surely at least a high-ranking councilman – if there was one thing he had learnt over the long years of negotiating with various people of various races, it was to gauge a person's power, importance and approximate position with a single look – and that he was not here now confused him. What could have changed in the twelve days that had passed since the last time he had been here – or had it been thirteen?

He was brought out of these thoughts in a rather painful and unexpected manner, namely by getting kicked into the back of his legs by one of his guards. The dark haired elf crashed instantly to his knees, too exhausted and weak to even try and retain his balance, and the impact with the hard stone tiles was nearly enough to rob him of all the self-control he had managed to hold onto until now. Why couldn't these damned humans simply _ask_?

Erestor did his best to ignore the pain that once again swept through his abused body, and raised his head almost instantly, looking at the small, dark haired woman in the chair without even blinking once. This was a power game, he was experienced enough to realise that, and if this woman wanted to play with her elders, then who was he to refuse such a wish?

After several moments of tense silence during which even Gasur began to shift restlessly and Erestor merely stared at the dark-clad woman Acalith finally raised a dark eyebrow and gave her prisoner an amused look.  
"Still being uncooperative, aren't we, Master Elf?"

Erestor's eyebrows began to climb up his forehead in open astonishment, and even if he had wanted to answer the woman, which he did not, he would have been too surprised to say anything. This woman had ordered her men to ambush him, to kill his escort, to kidnap him, put him into a small, dark room and finally to torture him, and was expecting him to be _co-operative _in return?

The silence grew once again while Erestor merely stared at the woman as if she had just declared that she was in reality Aredhel Ar-Feiniel or maybe Yavanna who was having a seriously bad, warped century. Gasur scowled at him and was about to take a step forward, that intense look of raw anger on his face that Erestor knew so well by now, but Acalith raised merely a hand, thus ordering him to remain where he was. The man obeyed instantly, and Erestor wondered if that was maybe all he was, a trained lapdog. Somehow he doubted it.

"I understand your position, Lord Erestor," the young woman began confidentially, leaning forward in her chair, "but you must also understand mine. If you do not start behaving more maturely and accommodating, I will be forced to employ even more unpleasant methods to ensure your co-operation."

Erestor's eyebrows climbed even higher, disbelief on his bruised face. For a moment, he contemplated that this woman might be joking, but that thought was discarded quickly. Somehow he doubted that she had much of a sense of humour.

"I doubt that," he said as calmly as he could, nothing but contempt on his face. "And I am not in the habit of sympathising with or actually understanding people like you."

Acalith merely laughed and leaned back in her chair, studying the elf in front of her intently.  
"And what kind of people would that be? Let me guess … deranged, insane creatures?"

"Oh, you are not insane," Erestor shook his head, returning the look evenly. "One would be tempted to think so, but you most definitely know what you are doing. And that is why I despise you, you and all your pathetic accomplices."

"It is the prerogative of the slave to hate the master," the woman shrugged nonchalantly, apparently highly undisturbed by the elf's words.

Erestor drew himself up as much as he could, still being kept on his knees by the hands of the guards that were grabbing his arms, and gave the young woman an ice-cold glare that was so full of loathing and contempt that even Gasur was slightly impressed.  
"I am no one's slave, woman," he spat, his eyes cold and hard and very determined. "Not yours and not anyone else's."

"Are you so sure about that?" Acalith raised an eyebrow again. "What big difference is there between a captive and a slave? I can do whatever I want with you. I can sell you to anyone I please. Or I can give you away as a gift – to Captain Gasur, for example?"

Erestor needed to call upon all his self-restraint in order not to try and jump to his feet. He had been wrong; this woman _was _mad, completely, utterly, wholly mad. If she thought that he would simply bow his head and allow her to _sell _him like some sort of animal or _give him away _to _Gasur _of all people, then she was gravely mistaken. He might be no warrior, but he still knew how to kill people; he had learnt it in many dark, gruelling years of fighting. Before he would allow anyone to do something like that to him, he would make them kill him, that was something he had sworn himself a long time ago.

He was about to open his mouth to say just that when he looked a little more closely into the dark haired woman's eyes and suddenly saw a calculating sparkle glinting in the dark blue depths. She was playing with him, he realised a split second later, playing with him and trying to find out his fears and weaknesses. She had no intention of doing what she had so nonchalantly threatened him with only a few moments earlier – and why should she? She wanted information, and doing something like that would not help her at all.

And if he had learnt one thing in the past twelve or thirteen days, it was that this woman was many things, but she was not stupid.

"Yes, you could do that," he nodded calmly, suddenly feeling as if he had just entered a game of chess – as a pawn, that was. "But what would that avail you?"

"A good question," Acalith smiled brightly, apparently getting into the spirit of things. "What _would _that avail me, Master Elf?"

"Nothing," Erestor said flatly. As much as he sometimes enjoyed games such as these, he really didn't want to give this woman any ideas. And besides, he really had other priorities right now, like escaping and plotting Acalith's most horrid and gruesome demise. "Nothing at all."

"Now we finally agree on something," Acalith told the elf in front of her friendly, still smiling at him. "Such a course of action would be most regrettable indeed. As regrettable and futile as your current behaviour." She leaned forward, managing to exude something that could have been called sympathy. "Why don't you accept the inevitable and face reality, Lord Erestor? Your people think you dead. Do you not think they would have appeared on my doorstep by now had they suspected anything, mad with rage? They will not come for you. They will not rescue you, or even look for you. You are alone."

Erestor shrugged as well as he could with his hands still bound behind him, doing his best to push back the niggling doubts that once again began to grow inside of him. Was this woman not correct? Shouldn't Elrond and Glorfindel have figured out that there was something wrong by now?

"You are wrong," he told the woman firmly, partially to crush his own doubts and fears. "It is a six days' ride from Aberon to Rivendell. Even if someone had left to inform my people right away, they would only just be arriving right about now. Do you take me for a fool to tell me such things and expect me to _believe _them?"

"A fool?" Acalith asked airily. "I do not know, Master Elf. All I know is that I am getting tired of asking you questions and not receiving any answers."

"You could try asking questions that make sense," Erestor advised her coldly, trying to shake off the detached, unreal feeling that was beginning to envelop his mind. It was just too bizarre, he thought, sitting here and talking with this woman as if they were sitting at a negotiating table. "Or assign the job to someone who is more intelligent than a cave-troll."

Gasur growled low in his throat and took another step forward, but was halted in mid-step by his lady who simply turned and gave him an icy look. The man stopped where he was, dividing his glare between the dark haired elf and the young woman, and Acalith found herself nodding inwardly. This elf was clever, too clever.

"Let me be blunt, then," she said slowly, carefully weighing her words, her eyes not leaving the elf's bruised face. "You have information I want. I am willing to do everything in my power to get that information. Captain Gasur here is more than prepared to aid me in this endeavour in any way. Are you with me so far?"

"I do not know what you are talking about. I cannot tell you what I do not know."

Acalith sighed dramatically at the elf's words and rolled her eyes.

"Why do you Elves have to be so damned stubborn? I know that you understand what I am trying to tell you, because you simply cannot be as stupid as you act. I do not think too much of the more … unpleasant manners of persuasion. If you tell me what I want to know, I will let you live, you have my word on it."

The dark haired elf merely gave her a look that suggested that she must have taken a rather hard hit to the head lately.  
"Your word? Your word means nothing to me, woman."

It appeared that not even Acalith was immune to constant insulting, for there was an angry, dark sparkle in her eyes when she leaned back into her large chair. All mocking humour had disappeared from her face when she addressed him again.

"And neither does your word mean anything to me when you tell me that you do not know what I am talking about. Let me tell you one thing, elf: All this will avail you and your lord nothing. I know that he thinks he can control us, that he can crush me and my town by supporting Aberon, but you can rest assured that it will not work. This is my town, _mine_, and I will not allow anyone, least of all one of your kind, to interfere with my business, do you understand?"

Erestor tried to project an aura of haughty disdain to cover up his growing confusion. He honestly had no idea what this woman was talking about. The humans didn't want to know anything about Rivendell's defences or Elrond's forces as he had first thought, but kept asking him these strange questions that made absolutely no sense. Slowly but surely he was coming to the conclusion that it would be a mistake to tell Acalith too often that he had no idea what she was talking about. The only thing that kept her from ordering his painful death was the fact that she firmly believed he could tell her what she wanted to hear, and he therefore felt no desire to correct her in this matter.

Acalith narrowed her eyes slightly, suddenly wishing she could see past the barrier the elf had erected behind the angry, grey depths of his eyes. She hadn't met many beings she could not read and therefore not manipulate, and she was beginning to think that this elf just might be a lot more interesting than she had first thought.

"Is he worth all this?" she finally asked softly, the fake sympathy once again appearing in her eyes. "Your lord, is he worth this? What has he ever done for you to deserve such unwavering loyalty, what has he ever done for you that would justify the blind obedience you display?"

For the first time in days, Erestor actually smiled, a bright, genuine smile.  
"Everything," he answered simply. "You need not try and understand it; even shrewd as you are, you would never manage to. He is not only my lord, he is my _friend_. I would die for him without a second thought, and he would never even have to ask."

The anger in the young woman's sparkling eyes even intensified, and she pressed her lips together, suddenly looking not as ethereal and beautiful as before. In fact, she looked cold and calculating and very, very deadly.  
"Then I will find a way to accommodate your wish, elf, you can be sure of that."

There was a small feeling of triumph in Erestor's heart when was being pulled to his feet none-too-gently by the uncaring hands of his guards. For such games as Acalith liked to play you always needed at least two players, and when both were experienced in the ways and rules of the game, it was not all that easy to throw the other off balance. For all her shrewd calculation, the woman was a child – a dangerous child, granted, but still a child.

She would have to think of something more interesting if she wanted to unsettle him, Erestor thought to himself. Judging by the determined sparkle in the dark haired woman's eyes, however, that was exactly what she was planning at the moment. It did not surprise him, no, but it was a realisation he did not treasure in the slightest.

Gasur was beginning to step forwards, undoubtedly intending to escort him back to his cell himself, but to Erestor's never-ending relief the man was stopped by a small, slender white hand that was placed on his arm, halting him before he had even taken more than two steps.  
"Stay, Gasur," Acalith simply said. "I have other things to discuss with you."

The dark haired man inclined his head, a thin, almost victorious smile on his face while he watched Erestor being turned around and dragged into the direction of the door. It was a smile full of such smug self-complacency and anticipation that it made Erestor's blood run cold, and that was not all that easy to achieve anymore.

Within a matter of moments the guards and Erestor had crossed the threshold, the door closing behind them with a loud sound of odd finality. He did not resist while he was being hauled down the corridor, and with the image of Acalith's slender fingers closing around Gasur's bracer-encircled wrist burned into his mind's eye, Erestor knew exactly what had changed over the past twelve or thirteen days.

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Tibron was actually quite impressed. He was sore, annoyed, apprehensive and wet, but also quite impressed.

He reached out to pat his horse's neck, feeling intensely grateful that they needed to wait for his human companions to catch up with them. The elves and the ranger were already next to him, looking annoyed more than anything else. And why shouldn't they, Tibron thought testily. They were apparently used to cover large distances on horseback. He, on the other hand, was not, and neither were his companions. They were merchants, mostly, or craftsmen or inn-keepers like he was, and weren't used to riding longer than maybe a day or two.

But since the elves _were _used to covering large distances at speed, they were here, on the hill overlooking Aberon. They had only needed five days instead of the usual six or seven, even though they had not really been hurrying overly much. The elves hadn't been forcing them to ride in any particular hurry, but then again, most people got tired of disapproving glances after some time. So they had rested little and broken camp early every day, and had finally reached their destination, sore but otherwise little worse for wear.

"I must apologise," Tibron heard a soft voice next to him. He turned his head, blinking in the grey, dim light, to see the dark haired ranger manoeuvre his horse next to his, a small smile on his face. "My companions and I were very anxious to reach your town. I hope our haste has not inconvenienced you or your friends overly much?"

"Oh, no, Master Ranger," the blond man shook his head, resisting the urge to rub his hurting backside. "It is good to be home. I only wish you would have come here under happier circumstances."

"As do we all," Aragorn inclined his head, forcefully pushing back the dark sadness that threatened to rise inside of him once more. "Yet if there is one thing I have learnt in my life, it is that nothing you can do can change the past, and that it is nothing but foolishness to spend your life with contemplations of what-ifs."

"Wise words for one so young," the older man smiled slightly. "I know men thrice your age who will never understand that."

"A side-effect of dealing with elves over a longer period of time," Aragorn grinned back, once again deciding that he liked this man. He hadn't met all that many humans he had liked over the past few years (somehow, most of them had wanted to kill and/or hurt him), and even though he couldn't shake the feeling that Tibron wasn't telling them all he knew, he had come to like him.

"Most likely," Tibron nodded his head, turning slightly to cast a look behind him. "It wouldn't surprise me overly much."

His companions were still not to be seen, and Tibron began to wonder if they were consciously trying to hang back. If they were, he could understand them only too well. He, too, was not looking forward to telling Hurag and the other council members that they had brought a group of elves with them.

"The council will not be happy about us being here," the young ranger said next to him, sounding more as if he was stating a fact than asking a question.

For a moment, Tibron thought about denying the younger man's claim, but then he merely shook his head, chuckling softly.  
"No," he agreed, "They will most certainly not be happy. Least of all Hurag, though; if there is one thing he can't stand, it is outsiders."

"Why not?" the dark haired ranger asked, frowning.

Tibron didn't really know how he should answer such a naïve question, and so he merely shrugged slightly.

"Who knows? He just doesn't, that's all." Hoofbeat could be heard behind him, heralding the arrival of his missing companions, and Tibron turned back to the young man beside him. "Will you and your friends do me the honour of joining me and my family tonight for dinner? You can stay in my house, or in that of my brother, I'm sure, and we will find a place for your men, too."

While Aragorn was just opening his mouth to say something and Tibron was still contemplating where he could find enough space for the eighteen elven warriors and their horses the three elves who were in charge of the other warriors suddenly appeared at their side, causing Tibron once again to wonder how these beings managed to appear and disappear so soundlessly. When they were walking it was one thing, but no one sitting on a horse should be able to move as soundlessly as a wraith!

Two of them were smiling at him as they sometimes did, while the third … Isál? … the one who had attacked him a few days ago, was staring at him with something that a suspicious person would have called hatred. For the umpteenth Tibron asked himself if that elf could wear any other expression. He had heard that one of the dead elves had been a friend of his, even though neither the ranger nor any of the elves would tell him more, but their deaths had hardly been _his _fault, had they?

One of the two more approachable elves, Lord Elrohir who could just as well be his brother for all the man knew, grinned slightly as he exchanged an unreadable look with the young ranger.  
"Did anybody mention dinner?"

Legolas rolled his eyes and turned half around to the elven warriors that were surrounding them and were keeping watch on their surroundings – very alertly so. It was clear that they didn't intend to make the same mistakes their friends had only a few days before.  
_"Alae, a Edhil o Imladris! Perian goven!"_

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, and even Isál smiled thinly. It was, in fact, a comparison Elrohir had heard several times in his life, even though Aragorn didn't think it was completely fair. Even though Elrohir – and Elladan as well – could have quite an appetite for one of the Firstborn, he was by no means a match for a hobbit. Then again, no one and nothing was when it came to consuming large quantities of food, not even a half-starved troll.

Elrohir valiantly ignored the peals of laughter that filled the air and gave Legolas the _look _before he turned back to a rather confused Tibron.  
"Ignore him, please, Master Human. He is a wood-elf and therefore not quite sane." Now it was Legolas' turn to glare at his friend, and Tibron merely nodded his head, looking from one of them to the other in open confusion. Elves were indeed a very strange lot. "We would, however," Elrohir went on, "be delighted to accept your invitation. Later."

"Later?" Tibron asked, plunging from one state of confusion into the other. What did he mean, later? They were right in front of the town and the only way they could… Oh, no. "My lord, you cannot mean to go there today! The sun will set in a few hours!"

"The One has gifted us with eyes," Isál commented darkly to the man's left, managing to make the simple sentence sound like a threat. "We intend to use them, and use them well."

"What the captain is meaning to say," Aragorn interjected hastily, giving the thoroughly unrepentant-looking Isál a fierce glare, "Is that we still have more than enough time to travel to the site of the ambush. You said you buried them there, so we should have no problems finding our way. You said it wasn't far?"

"Well – no," Tibron admitted reluctantly, still trying to come up with a good reason why they shouldn't travel half-way to Donrag tonight. If Toran and Hurag heard that he had not only brought a group of elves here but also allowed them to investigate without bringing them to Aberon and before the council first, his brother would have his head on a pike. If he was lucky. "But the graves are to the left of the road, at least as far as I know. It would be easy to miss them in the twilight, and the same goes for eventual tracks that still _might _be there. It would be wisest to wait till tomorrow."

"If that is so," Legolas spoke up silkily, silver-blue eyes fastening intensely on the man's face, "then you will surely not mind guiding us there, will you, Master Tibron? Or one of your companions, perhaps, so that we may not lose our way?"

The wood-elf turned around to the other humans who had arrived by now and were looking at him as if he had just invited them to join them for dinner tonight – as the main course. Tibron needed to take only one look at them to know that none of them would willingly accompany the elves anywhere, least of all into the vicinity of Donrag. For a moment he asked himself it that meant that they were cowards or that he was insane and could find no answer.

"Very well," he finally gave in after a second. "My companions can return to the city to inform the council of your impending arrival. I will guide you where you want to go, but I must beg you to return with me to Aberon as quickly as possible. You know better than anyone else that these lands aren't the safest at the moment."

"I thought that, when your brother and the others found our warriors in the night, they had been dead for hours?" Elrohir asked evenly, studying the blond man's face. "It would appear that it makes little difference whether or not the sun is shining. Now that I think of it, it is yet another thing that makes it rather hard to believe that it was orcs that were responsible for their deaths, wouldn't you agree?"

"Well," Tibron began, fumbling for words and feeling very much like a man who was just beginning to slide down a very rocky, very slippery slope straight into a bottomless ravine, "Yes … but…"

"It might have happened in the twilight hours," Aragorn told his elven brother calmly, even though he did not sound overly convinced himself.

Elrohir snorted and shook his head.  
"And Sauron might realise one day that he really enjoys frolicking in sunlit meadows full of spring flowers."

"Now that you mention it…"

Elrohir said something rather rude in Elvish which caused the fair haired elf next to them to grin broadly, and Tibron once again decided that he would never understand these beings, neither the ranger nor his elven friends. They were just too strange, and he found himself wishing that they would leave again soon and leave them be, no matter how much he might have come to like them, especially the young man.

"So it is agreed?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to its former topic.

Elrohir exchanged a quick look with the others before he nodded his head.  
"It is agreed, Master Tibron. Thank you for your kind … offer."

The man raised a blond eyebrow and grinned slightly, nothing more than a sarcastic quirking of his mouth.  
"You are welcome, my lord."

The elf grinned back, suddenly looking like a mischievous boy more than anything else, and Tibron turned his horse around to explain to his companions why they would have to inform the council of the elves' impending arrival. Now that he thought about it, he might be better off after all. Hurag would _not _be happy, and for that alone the arduous journey might have been worth it.

A few minutes later the travelling party began to move again and the horses slowly began to climb down the steep incline. At the bottom of the hill the group separated, and while the smaller part steered their horses straight to Aberon, the other one turned south-west, into the direction of the ford and the road leading to Donrag.

**  
****  
****  
**

Gaerîn was beginning to think that she had done something horrible to someone very important in a previous life. Maybe she had set fire to Aulë's forge, or had painted the Mindon Eldaliéva in Tirion pink; she honestly didn't know, but it must have been something truly horrible.

She grinned inwardly, allowing herself to ignore her surroundings for a moment. Painting the High King's tower sounded like a very amusing thing to do, but that couldn't have been enough to enrage the Valar enough to sentence her to … this. Besides, Tulkas would most likely have found it endlessly amusing.

The sound of someone clearing his throat brought her back to the present, and she immediately assumed the look of unyielding sternness she had perfected during long years of dealing with recalcitrant patients.  
"For the last time: No."

The elf in front of her exhaled, clearly irritated, an action that was mirrored by the group of anxious and rather muddy elven warriors behind him. Gaerîn once again attempted to count them, but gave up quickly since they were moving all the time, trying to get closer to her or rather to the large wooden door at her back. The red haired healer once again wondered how this scene would look like to any casual observer, with her standing in front of the doors leading to the healing wing and the better part of one of Rivendell's companies crowding around her like a group of elflings around a teacher.

Not that a casual observer would have fitted in the hallway, Gaerîn thought wryly. There didn't seem to be enough free space for a hobbit.

The elven warrior in front of her gave her a dark look that did not impress her in the slightest, but the worry and urgency in his eyes was enough to make her take a deep breath and run a hand through her long, gleaming red hair.

"I know that you will most likely not believe me, but please trust me when I tell you that I am doing this not out of malice, Thalar."

The thus addressed elf shook his head and clearly worked hard to calm himself down, apparently only one step away from shouldering the healer aside and entering the healing wing, permission or no permission.  
"I would never accuse you of something like that, my lady, but…"

"Yes, you would," Gaerîn interrupted him wryly. "And you have in the past, if I'm not very much mistaken."

Thalar had the good grace to look mildly embarrassed, and most of the warriors behind him had to hide small grins behind their hands.  
"Well, yes, but I was much younger back then."

"It was last year, Commander."

"As I was saying," Thalar said, trying to ignore his thinly smiling men and at the same time to steer the conversation back to the former topic, "We do not wish to inconvenience you or your staff, but we would like to see our captain. Now."

Gaerîn found herself smiling very slightly at the other elf's dogged persistence. She had been telling him – and his men – for more than ten minutes now that there was no way she would allow them to see Captain Elvynd, but if he was even hearing her words, she was not all too sure. Thalar and the rest of the wounded captain's guard had arrived in Rivendell less than twenty minutes ago from a short patrol they had been sent on after their captain's alleged death, and it hadn't taken them longer than half a minute to rush here after hearing the news that their captain was in fact not dead but rather lying unconscious in the healing wing. And the other master healers had sent _her _out to deal with them, what a surprise.

"I will not allow it," she shook her head once more, wondering if anything at all would get through Thalar's thick skull. "Listen to me, Commander," she went on insistently, seeing his stubborn expression, "Captain Elvynd is very weak. He will not even know you're there."

"He will know," the elven warrior disagreed curtly. "I am his second-in-command, and his friend. He will know."

Inwardly, Gaerîn was wishing a plague upon the heads of all warriors. Was blind stubbornness a requirement to become a soldier or was it merely an occupational hazard?

"You are not listening to me. Again," she said through gritted teeth. "Let me be frank. It is only to be accredited to his mulishness, luck and the grace of the Valar that your captain is not dead. He has not awoken since he lost consciousness in the courtyard, and he may very well not wake up at all. Someone tried to split his skull with an apparently rather blunt sword, and we spent hours digging an arrow head out of his shoulder. The wound is infected, and badly so. The absolutely last thing he needs at the moment is you stomping around his bed. Do I make myself absolutely, perfectly clear?"

The faces in front of her fell as the warriors began to realise how close to death their captain really was, but even though the young commander's face became even more serious and the worry in his eyes increased even more, he did not back down. He merely looked at the red haired she-elf with the most pleading expression he could manage at the moment.  
"Please, my lady. Only a few minutes. We thought he was _dead_. We will not be in the way, that I swear to you by Elbereth's stars."

Gaerîn looked into Thalar's pleading blue eyes that looked so much like Isál's and knew she was lost. With a small, defeated sigh she shook her head, deciding inwardly that she was getting soft in her old age.

"All right. But," she raised a hand when most of the elves present took a step forward, "only you, Commander. Even the captain's parents aren't allowed to stay with him for long. I will personally throw you out in ten minutes, and if one of _you_," she glared at the warriors in front of her, "so much as breathes into the direction of my healing wing, I will make sure that Lord Glorfindel hears about it. Understood?"

The warriors looked rather rebellious at that, but a quick nod from their commander caused them to bow their heads, however reluctantly. Thalar knew very well that this was all he would be getting from the small healer, and so it took only a few moments until he and Gaerîn had disappeared into the healing wing and the rest of the warriors had taken their leave, still grumbling under their breath. A group of them returned to the courtyard to look after their horses which they had abandoned in their hurry to reach their wounded captain's side, and walked past Elladan who was standing on top of the stairs, looking very much as if he didn't want to be here and, strangely enough, as if he was waiting for someone.

The dark haired twin looked up shortly, grinning, before his eyes returned to the main gate, the uneasiness in his eyes barely visible in the growing twilight.  
"She's not letting you in, is she?"

"No, my lord," one of them shook his head darkly. "Only Commander Thalar, and only for a few minutes."

"How did he convince her to do that?" Elladan asked, genuinely puzzled.

The guards merely shrugged and told him that they didn't know either, but Elladan was hardly listening anymore. His eyes were firmly fixed on the gate through which a single rider was passing at the moment, silver haired and wearing the familiar green and brown garb of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood. The warriors noticed quickly that their young lord's attention was diverted, gave him a bow and moved off into the direction of the stables, leaving Elladan to greet the newcomer alone.

Said newcomer rode up to the stairs leading up to the main house, eyeing the elves that were hastening from one end of the darkening courtyard to the other with a sort of mild curiosity. Everyone was much too busy to pay him much attention, and one of the elf's silver eyebrows was still arched high when he dismounted. He was still looking at the elves, mostly warriors, that were clearly preparing themselves for a lengthy journey when Elladan walked down the stairs, smiling broadly and moving with only the slightest limp.

_"Mae govannen, Celythramirion!"_

There might have been no one else to insist on proper protocol, but Celylith wasn't about to fail to show Elladan the respect he was due as Lord Elrond's son – at least not in public, that was.  
"Well met, my lord," he inclined his head respectfully and bowed. "It is good to see you so well and … are you _limping_?"

Celylith's horrified tone of voice caused Elladan's smile to falter slightly, and he hurried to reinforce it. How he wished Elrohir to be here; his twin had always been the more diplomatic one. To explain to Celylith that his friend and prince was gone would not be amusing.  
"Not really," he shook his head, wondering at the same moment whom he was trying to convince of that fact. "It's nothing."

The silver haired elf gave him a dark look, his intention to treat Elladan as he would have treated Lord Elrond himself apparently quickly being forgotten.  
"Elves do not limp because of nothing, Elladan," he told the dark haired elf, surveying him closely. "What happened? Where is Legolas? What happened to him? And where is everyone going?"

Elladan took a deep breath and shook his head helplessly. Celylith was reacting just as he had thought, which meant over-protectively and in a headless and rather worried manner.

"Well, there was this … hole I guess you could say, over in the old ridge – only that it wasn't a hole, really, it was more like a crevice, and it wasn't visible, of course, otherwise we wouldn't have fallen in and Estel wouldn't have broken his wrist _and _Legolas and I wouldn't have become trapped under a ton of rocks and…" He trailed off when he saw his friend's confused face. "Am I going too fast for you, _mellon nín_?"

Celylith rolled his eyes in a manner that very clearly said that he asked himself why he had come here in the first place and turned back to his horse.  
"I told them, didn't I? I _told _them that they would only get into trouble here, I _told _them that it would be much safer if they let me come with them or would stay in Mirkwood in the first place, but did they listen? Did they?"

"I would guess not."

"And you would be correct," the silver haired warrior went on darkly, unfastening one of his saddle bags. "They never do. Don't ask me why, because the only reason I have been able to think of is that they have a death wish or are too dim-witted to understand the consequences of their actions." He turned back to Elladan, thrusting one of the bags into the twin's hands. "Here, don't drop this. I will need it once I find Legolas, namely to kill him."

"Why?" Elladan asked somewhat nervously, eyeing the bag as if it were containing a baby spider – something that, knowing Celylith, wasn't all that unlikely. "Please tell me it isn't one of Wilwarin's cousins!"

Celylith turned back to the dark haired elf, an expression of hurt innocence on his face that would have fooled most people. There was also a small, sentimental glint in his eyes that appeared there every time the elf thought about Wilwarin, the baby spider that had been his pet for a few weeks before Legolas had forced him to give her up. This was just not right, Elladan shook his head. No elf should look like that when he was thinking of a _spider_!

"Why, my lord, of course not! I would never take such a sweet little creature so far away from home!" Elladan relaxed slightly at his friend's words, and Celylith waited for a few seconds before he added, "It's only that warg cub I found by the road. It had broken one of its hind legs and was looking so _adorable _that I couldn't leave it all on its own in the dark forest!"

Elladan paled and was about to toss the bag back to Celylith, but was stopped by the large grin that spread over the wood-elf's face. He grabbed the bag more tightly as if to prove that he was by no means afraid of it before he glared at the other elf.  
"That was not funny, wood-elf!"

"I beg to differ, my lord," Celylith grinned, looking rather unimpressed. "You should have seen your face! Amusing as this conversation might be," he inclined his head in a gesture of such overstated politeness that Elladan would have liked to rip off his head, "I would like to see Prince Legolas now. I want to kill him for this new foolishness. Oh, and I also have a letter for him from his father."

"Well," Elladan began rather ineloquently, desperately trying to come up with a way to stall or, as a second option, to become invisible on the spot, "You see…"

He never got to finish that sentence since the sound of running feet caused both of them to look up, just in time to see a young healer positively fly down the stairs. The elf skidded to a halt in front of them, his chest heaving so much that he needed a moment to be able to speak.  
"My lord … you … wanted to be informed when … he woke up," he finally managed to pant. "He's awake!"

Elladan didn't need to ask about whom the young healer was speaking and merely nodded his head, turning back to Celylith who looked as if he was contemplating whether only Elrond's family or all of Rivendell had gone mad.  
"We need to go," he told him quickly, taking his arm and already beginning to pull him up the stairs. "Come on."

"Oh no, wait!" the other elf shook his head and tried to pull his arm out of the twin's grasp. "I want some answers first before my head explodes. What is going on here, Elladan? Where are Legolas and your brothers? Where are the warriors going? What has happened?!"

"Please, Celylith, we don't have time for explanations," Elladan said exasperatedly and tugged at the wood-elf's arm. "Trust me, my friend. I will explain later, I promise."

Celylith gave him a rather dubious look, but if he wanted to protest further he never got the chance since he was being pulled up the stone stairs leading up to the house. His aching hip forgotten for the moment, Elladan followed the young healer as quickly as he could, dragging Celylith with him who had apparently decided that resisting was extremely futile.

Within a few minutes they had reached the large doors that led to the healing wing and that had always looked rather forbidding for such a bright, sunlit place like Rivendell, at least to Celylith's eyes, and a moment later the healer had opened the door and ushered them inside. Before Celylith really knew what was happening he was being dragged into the direction of a bed on the far side of the room, in front of a large window through which the last rays of the setting sun could just be seen, colouring the horizon a bloody red. The silver haired elf tried to see the bed's occupant, but he could not catch sight of him due to the four elves that were crowding around it. He wasn't even surprised anymore when he realised that, next to a red haired she-elf and a rather muddy warrior that looked faintly familiar, it was Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel who were kneeling next to the bed, concentrated intently on the occupant.

Elrond looked up when he heard their approach, but did not speak to them or even greet Celylith with more than a nod before he turned back around to the bed.  
"Elvynd? Come now, _pen-neth_, I know you can hear me! Open your eyes, Captain!"

For long moments, nothing happened, but finally the pale, still elf's eyes opened slowly. He blinked several times, obviously trying to focus on something, and his head turned slowly into the direction of Elrond's voice.  
"My … lord?" His voice was so soft that even Elrond had to strain his ears to hear it.

"Yes, young one," the dark haired elf lord nodded his head, exchanging a quick look with Glorfindel. "You are back home," he anticipated the wounded elf's next question. "We removed the arrowhead just in time. You are still running a high fever, but if you rest enough, you should be just fine. Everyone is most relieved that you decided to rejoin us."

The captain frowned, apparently only half understanding what Elrond was saying.  
"…broke … off … stupid…"

Elrond needed a moment to understand what Elvynd was talking about.  
"The arrow broke off, yes," he agreed. "It was not your fault. It would have been nothing but luck had you managed to remove it, left-handed and after receiving such a blow to the head."

Glorfindel, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, giving Elrond a quick look. Judging from the serious look on the half-elf's face, it was only a matter of half a minute until the young elf would return to unconsciousness.  
"Elvynd? Can you tell us what happened to you? Where are your men and Lord Erestor?"

Elvynd didn't turn his head into Glorfindel's direction, either because he hadn't noticed that another elf was speaking to him or because he did not possess the strength to move.  
"We were … ambushed. They're … dead…"

Behind Glorfindel, Thalar took a deep breath, his face turning even whiter and more emotionless than it had already been. He had obviously hoped that at least some of his fellow warriors would still be alive, now that his captain had made it back home.  
"All of them?" Elrond insisted. "Are all of them dead, Captain?"

Elvynd nodded painfully, seeming to stare right through the elf lord in front of him.  
"Cuilthen … Aleneth … all my men … dead …"

"What about Lord Erestor, young one?" Elrond asked gently, trying to ignore the renewed sadness that once again rose inside of him at the young captain's words. "Is he dead as well?"

"They … were trying … to take him … alive … I did not … see him … fall…" Elvynd managed to say, his eyes beginning to close again on their own account.

"'They'?" Glorfindel's insistent voice cut through the haze that was once again enveloping the young captain's mind, even though the quiet relief that filled his heart was almost audible. "Elvynd! Who did this? By all the Valar, who did this to you?"

Elvynd felt the darkness once again creep up on him, but the urgent timbre he could hear in his superior's voice was enough for him to fight it a little while longer, even though he had said everything he had come to say.  
"Men … they were men … a trap … I should have … seen it … I should … have known…"

"No, _pen-neth_. No. Never that," Glorfindel shook his head emphatically, instinctively reaching out to take the younger elf's left hand. A strange expression flickered over his face, but Elrond realised that Glorfindel knew exactly how the young captain felt at the moment – and so did he. He, too, knew what it felt like to watch your friends die all around you and yet survive. Sometimes he thought that that, more than anything else, was the greatest curse of them all.

"Never that," the golden haired elf repeated. "It was not your fault. Only Ilúvatar himself knows and sees all. I know you; you are one of the best captains I ever trained. If there had been a way to avoid what happened, you would have found it. Never doubt that."

Elvynd didn't say anything, either not trusting himself to speak or because he was too exhausted to open his mouth, and Elrond moved a little closer, looking intently at the wounded elf. It was nothing short of a miracle that he was still alive, but the sheer tenacity with which he was clinging to consciousness would soon be not enough anymore.  
"Can you remember anything else, Captain? Anything about the humans that ambushed you? Was there anything out of the ordinary? Did you recognise anyone?"

Even as he was speaking these words, Elrond could have hit himself. What exactly was he expecting, that a group of raiders or highwaymen had signs hanging around their necks with their names and addresses? And how would Elvynd know one of them?

The dark haired captain didn't say anything for a few moments, his eyes closed under the large, white bandage that encircled his head, and just when Elrond thought he had lost consciousness again, he slowly opened his eyes, his expression troubled and confused.

"I … don't know …" Elvynd frowned and closed his eyes again as he tried to remember, doing his best not to shy away from the memories so full of pain, fear and anger. For a moment he was back on that road, holding a dying Cuilthen in his arms, anticipating the blow that would sent him into unconsciousness, but he pushed the memories aside with the last bit of strength he possessed. All the faint images he could remember were chaotic at best, but he finally opened his eyes once more, fighting off the enticing blackness with a willpower he hadn't known he possessed. "There … there was a crest … a coat of arms … the one who … nearly cut off my head … must have forgotten … to remove it … no one else … was wearing it…"

"What kind of crest?" Elrond asked, sensing that the other elf was only seconds away from unconsciousness. "What did it look like?"

Elvynd's eyes closed again, and this time he didn't possess the strength to open them again. Thanking Eru and all the Valar that they had given him this one chance to tell his lord what he needed to know, he concentrated his remaining wits on answering his question.  
"A stream … a … broad stream … with a … bridge … and two roads…"

He didn't get to finish the sentence for unconsciousness reclaimed him in this moment, and this time he surrendered himself to it gladly, smiling inwardly as the throbbing pain and the overwhelming weakness in his body faded. Elrond quickly reached out and placed a hand on the unconscious elf's forehead to make sure that the fever had not risen and moved it downwards to check his pulse. Glorfindel looked up from Elvynd's pale face to fix worried blue eyes on Elrond, and now Elladan and the other elves present noticed what the golden haired elf had already seen: Elrond's hand was shaking slightly, and his face had gone pale and terribly still.

Before Glorfindel could say anything, Elrond had stood to his feet and turned to look at Gaerîn who was standing at the foot of the bed, looking as if she would like nothing better than to throw all of them out and check on her patient.  
"Look after him, please."

If the red haired she-elf was in any way surprised by her lord's uncharacteristically brief manner, she did not show it and merely nodded her head, but Elladan was not quite as calm.  
"_Ada_? What does this mean?"

Elrond ignored him, another thing that was highly uncharacteristic of him, and looked at Glorfindel who was also getting to his feet now, still looking very confused and at the same time very relieved.  
"How many companies were you going to take with you?"

"Nearly two, my lord," the golden haired elf answered slowly, exchanging a quick look with Elladan, Celylith and Thalar, who merely shrugged, clueless themselves.

"Muster another one," Elrond ordered curtly. "We leave tomorrow at sunrise."

He was about to turn around and leave the room when Glorfindel's hand shot out, grasping his elbow and halting his progress.  
"Why, Elrond?" he asked, looking at his friend intensely. "Whose coat of arms is it?"

For a moment, he thought Elrond wouldn't answer him, but then the dark haired elf looked at him, naked fear in his grey eyes that Glorfindel hadn't seen there for a long time.  
"It once belonged to another city, but today…" he trailed off and took a deep breath. "Today it is the coat of arms of the family of the Lord of Donrag."

If one looked closely enough, it was almost possible to watch Glorfindel's thoughts come to a standstill. There even was a faint grinding noise to be heard.  
"Donrag," he repeated tonelessly.

"Yes," Elrond nodded sharply, despair mixing with the fear in his eyes now. "And I sent my sons right there."

Elladan actually thought his heart would stop, and maybe it even did for a moment. O sweet Eru, Elrohir was there, and Estel and Legolas and Isál and all the others! They wouldn't be expecting anything like this, least of all from Donrag. He himself had warned his brothers to beware of the inhabitants of Aberon, but Donrag…

He didn't even notice that his father was leaving the room without another word, followed by Glorfindel who even seemed to have forgotten his broken ankle for now, or that Gaerîn moved over to Elvynd's bedside to tend to her unconscious patient. Thalar was obviously torn between following his lord and staying with his captain, and in the end he soundlessly moved to Elvynd's beside and sat down on a chair next to him, obviously hoping not to be noticed.

Elladan only resurfaced from his small spell of pure panic when a hand grasped his forearm and shook him slightly, its owner's patience obviously spent. The dark haired twin looked up slowly, straight into the eyes of Celylith who returned his look evenly, worry, confusion and something like desperation swirling in his dark blue eyes. The Silvan elf slowly and very deliberately looked from Elladan to Thalar and back to the older twin again.

"Would somebody _please _tell me what is going on here?"

And that, Elladan thought darkly to himself before he opened his mouth to answer, was a very good question indeed.

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TBC...

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_Alae, a Edhil o Imladris! Perian goven! - Behold, o Elves of Imladris! A hobbit (is) among us!  
Mae govannen, Celythramirion - Well met, son of Celythramir  
mellon nín - my friend  
pen-neth - young one  
ada - father (daddy)_

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Yeah, you convinced me. Elvynd is probably going to live. I'm pathetic; my alter ego will have my hide. •winces at thought• Please note, however, that this will not, I repeat, NOT turn into a romance. Now that I think about it, though, the idea of what kind of children Acalith and Gasur would have is QUITE interesting... •evil grin• Be that as it may, the next chapter will be here in a week, which could be named "The Calm Before the Storm/Torture III". Or something like that. •g• As always: Review? Please?

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**Ithiliel Silverquill** - Yeah, you're right. It probably wasn't all that hard to figure out. I'm getting predictable. Somebody shoot me. •g• LOL, yes, elf lord SHOULD know better than getting themselves into situations such as this one. To be completely fair, however, I have to admit that it wasn't completely his fault. •Erestor glares darkly• Well, okay, it wasn't your fault at all. Happy now? No? I didn't think so. •g• And I'm not cruel. I'm •different•. VERY different, granted, but still... •evil grin• Thank you very much for all your reviews!  
**HarryEstel** - I had gathered as much. Lots of people like Elvynd, I don't really know why either. He hasn't really done anything but letting himself get cut into pieces, has he? •shrugs• But I'm glad. I'm always afraid people won't like my OCs. The nice ones, mind you. You aren't supposed to like Gasur, after all. •g• And of course things are getting ugly! They always do, don't they? Reckless elves and ranger... •shakes head disapprovingly•  
**KLMeri** - Hmm, I'm not really planning anything. Well, yes, there is a bit of blood, and a bit of angst and pain and torture and murder and all that, but other than that ... nope, nothing special. Why? •g• And I know Elladan is fragile. I would love to force him to stay in Rivendell - if you could think of a way to keep him there, that is. I can't think of one, sorry. •g• Oh, and stubbornness is most certainly hereditary. It's all in the genes! •g• LOL, and that was just what Jack and I were thinking. We watched the EE of RotK and Aragorn was acting just like that! "Oh, the Paths of the Dead! No one's ever come back from there! Let's try it!" "The last Gondorian king who tried to fight the Nazgûl or Sauron was never seen again and was most likely tortured to death in Minas Morgul or Barad-dûr. Cool, who's with me?" •shakes head• Such an idiot. •g• Oh, and Elvynd's awake ... well, he was. That's okay, too, isn't it?  
**Viggomaniac** - Oh, don't worry about reviewing. It was all FF-net's fault, evil site from H••• that it is. •glares at web site• Since I am in fact not from the U.S., I have to admit that I have no idea what you are talking about. What is the "Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol"? I couldn't even fathom a guess... Don't worry thought, I won't put IT off much longer. I know that you guys can't wait for IT (not you, of course •g•), but there is no way I can put IT in any sooner. They need some trouble to get themselves into real trouble, don't they? •g• And I think that "creep" is the perfect description for Gasur. If there ever was a creep, it's him. •g• I am very sorry to hear that you're getting impatient, but you have to admit that it would be cruel to ... well, let IT happen to Aragorn before he had recovered from his last ordea... I mean adventure? Do you want the poor boy to suffer any lasting damage? Acquire lots and lots of mental scars? On second thought, don't answer that question. I don't think I really want to know. •g• **  
TrustingFriendship** - I'm sorry about that. I'll never understand why FF-net screws up. I just don't get it. I hope you were able to read the chapter eventually. Then again, considering that FF-net hates me... •trails off• Well, you apparently were. That's good. •glares at FF-net• I hate you, evil spawn of H•••. Yes, you. •g• And you're right, of course, a few hours rest should be more than enough for Elvynd! What a sissy. •g•  
**Kenzimone** - Don't worry, Elvynd will tell them what he knows. It's not all that much, but it's enough for now. If he could tell them everything, it would boring, now wouldn't it? •g• •blinks• Reod is WHAT? Cuddly? Well ... uhm ... uhm... •gives up• Okay, you've stunned me. I can't think of anything to say. That's definitely a first. •g• Anyway, thank you very much for taking the time to review!  
**Lynn-G** - Well, who knows, maybe Gaerîn really is some sort of bat or something like that. It would surprise me to be honest, but Glorfindel insists. •shrugs• He can be really strange sometimes. I'm glad you liked the conversation between Elrond and Glorfindel, even though I have to admit that Glorfindel's concern was a little 'abrupt'. I wasn't completely happy about it either, but was too lazy to think of a smoother transition, so to speak. •shrugs• It's too late now anyway, I guess.  
**Alilacia** - •smiles innocently• Elvynd? Fever? I have no idea what you're talking about, no idea at all... •g• I don't really know yet who will kill Gasur, but let me assure you that he will be quite dead at the end of the story. I can give you a clone though which you may tear to pieces if you so wish. Deal? •g• Oh, and Gods no, Gaerîn doesn't know what exactly Glorfindel thinks of her. I doubt that she would be very amused... •g• In fact, I believe that she would tear HIM to pieces! •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - Well, I have to admit that I didn't really LIKE it either, at least not that way. I mean, come on, two very hot guys who are so very obviously not interested in women - that's just plain wrong! But the two of them didn't kiss. Alexander only kissed that little fruitcake Bagoas, the eunuch. Oh, and his mother, in a very kinky way. Before you ask, yes, he •was• slightly insane. •g• And you're not a patient person? I would never have guessed! Really? •insert sarcasm here• Oh, and thanks for the bandaid. The bullet wound's almost healed by now, thanks. •g• And trust me: You don't want to get into my brain. Nu-uh. •evil grin•  
**Crippled Raven** - I beg to differ. I would have been funny as h••• to let him die after all, but my soft side (damn it!) wouldn't let me. My alter ego is having a fit right now, trust me. •g• What ... really? For me? •takes certificate of Creative Insanity hesistantly• Are you sure? We can share it, you know... Really. I don't think I deserve it, but thanks nonetheless. •huggles• That's most certainly the nicest thing I got this month! Oh, except maybe the 100 ₠I got from my aunt as a belated Christmas present. That was nice, too. •g• Oh, and I wouldn't say that Gasur reserves his extreme torture-happiness to elves. He likes to torture about everyone (including small animals, I'd imagine), but he would like to torture elves more than anything else. No, I'm not telling you why, at least not now. •g• Whoah, I'm also the 'Author-with-the-most-fascinatingly-bizarre-mental-image-inspiring-metaphors-&-descriptions' and that other thing that's too long to put into here? Thanks! That's just a sweet thing to say... •g• Uhm, well, the 'paiderasteia', meaning the "love for boys" or something like that, was just generally accepted. Most Greek boys had an older lover/mentor who took care of them, helped them to find jobs, help them with the whole 'growing up thing' and all that. That was just the way things were. •shrugs• Demosthenes was an Athenian politician/demagogue/orator who hated Philipp II. (and Alexander) with a passion, born 380 or something like that.. Not all that surprising, considering that he WAS Athenian and the Macedons were about to (or actually did) try and gain hegemony of Greece. Bad luck.  
**Ventinari** - Hmm, breaking Erestor's hand FEELS kind of wrong, I'll admit that. But you have to understand my position: I had Jack and my alter ego screaming for blood, anyone's blood. Sorry about it, but sometimes I'm really scared of the two of them. •g• And don't worry about his hand. If worst comes to worst, they can always break the hand again and THEN straighten the fingers. •evil grin• And I like your "special" hell. It sounds like the right place for Gasur. •g• And you wanted Erestor's POV? Voilà, here it is! •g•  
**Elvendancer** - •g• Thanks a lot! But it's not really true, sometimes I think about injuring people and then don't do it after all. It's rare, yes, but it's been known to happen... •g• "Debating" is actually quite a good term. I don't like to argue either, so "debating" sounds much better. •g•  
**Maranwe1** - •blushes• Did I really write that? You have to tell me where! I've been looking for it since I read your review, but I can't find it! It's hiding from me, I swear it is! But I will find you, "arout", and then may the Valar protect you! •shakes fist• Uhm, yes, well, whatever. Welcome back. •huggles• It's nice to see that you're still enjoying this weird story. Even though it contains words like "arout". •g•  
**Tinlaure** - •waves• Hi. Nice to 'see' you again! So the last chapter was evil, huh? I really don't get it. Even the chapter that are really nice and fluffy and all that are 'evil'. •shakes head• You people are overly sensitive. •g• Oh, and I have a little voice just like that, too. It's getting rather strange, though, a few weeks ago I watched someone run to catch the bus and it yelled something like "Run, little piggy, run!" I honestly have no idea why. AND it was speaking in English, which is even more disconcerting. My evil little voice is speaking a foreign language. That just can't be good. •g• And I have to agree, Elvynd IS feeling like a complete failure at the moment. •pats his head• Poor elfsie. •g• He'll get better, don't worry. Eventually, I guess. •evil grin•  
**Barbara Kennedy** - OMG, you're right! Real, actual back squirrels! •looks at pictures with a rather stupid grin• They're adorable, aren't they? Maybe Celylith SHOULD get one - I'm sure it would be a lot easier to keep one than a spider. •g• It's probably easier to feed, too. Thanks a lot for the link - and your review!  
**Elvingirl3737** - •takes monkey• Cheers! I've always wanted one of those! •g• I'm sorry about that other prize, though. The floors in this house aren't what they used to be... •shakes head sadly• Well, it IS the thought that counts. •g• And yes, Elvynd is going to stay alive. I caved in. I'm pathetic, I know. •sheepish grin•  
**Alisha B** - Well, don't worry about not understanding yourself. Most of the time I don't know why I'm doing the things I do either. I think it's quite natural. •g• I'm sorry to hear about your "medical issues". They really sound annoying - even more so than classes, and THAT means quite a lot, I think. •g• And I know what you mean, I was sorely tempted to let Elvynd die. Not because I'm evil or anything, but still. Then I remembered that I did something like that to Galalith last story, and if there is one thing I would hate to be, it's repetitive. •shrugs• So, maybe next story. Don't worry about me killing off canon characters, though. I have no intentions to write AUs - at least at the moment. •g• LOL, I loved Glorfindel's thoughts, "Wow, this again. You know the Balrog was worse." I HAVE to remember that one - he could say something like that to Gasur... •makes mental note• •backs away frantically• Plot bunnies? Where!? •shrieks• Keep them away from me! AHHHH!!  
**Arrina** - Yeah, sorry about that. This post is going to be late, too, I'm afraid. It's already 9:15 pm here, there are still 15 reviews to go and I have to proofread the whole bloody thing, too! Argh! •g• Don't worry, I'll manage. It just may take some time. I have to admit that I have no idea who's going to kill Gasur, at least not yet. I really haven't. But if I should decide to let him live - which I doubt, btw - you may kill him. •g• And I don't think Erestor has a death wish. He just can't keep his mouth shut, silly elf that he is. •shakes head• He really should know better.  
**Katie** - Uhm, yes, you do have a sadistic side. I'll freely admit that I have one (even though I haven't broken a single elven finger in my life either - it was always some evil man or other •g•), but YOU most certainly do as well. Think about it. •g• And I seriously hope that such top ten lists do not exist in ME. I would be dead within minutes. •looks at scowling elves/rangers• Ah, make that seconds. •g• And why are you laughing about the term "rescue party"? Hm? Why? •g•  
**Beling** - Oh. Well, I hope reading that scene wasn't too bad. It didn't need another rating, did it? I'm really not good at rating my stories, and I wouldn't want my account to be banned because of a silly mistake like that. I haven't seen "The Pianist" yet, but I've heard it's very good. Then again, I haven't even seen "La Vita è Bella". I really want to see that movie. •hits herself• I should just stop moaning and rent it, I know. Ignore me. •g• I thought about what you said about everyone not being properly happy about Elvynd's survival, and tried to make up for it in this one, at least a little bit. Tell me if you think that he didn't enough attention yet; I might be able to squeeze in another scene in a few chapter. Might being the main word here. •g• Thank you very much for all your long reviews! •huggles•  
**Maerz** - Na, na, na, wen haben wir denn da? Wird das etwa Maerz/One15 sein? •g• Du warst ja ganz schoen lange in der Versenkung verschwunden! •knuddelt ganz doll• Schoen, dich mal wieder zu sehen! Mach dir keine Sogen wegen der Reviews oder so; ich verstehe vollkommen, wieviel Zeit Abitur/Pratikasuche etc. in Anspruch nehmen koennen! Gratulation uebrigens! •schuettelt Hand• Ich weiss schon, was ein kulturelles Jahr ist, aber ich bin sehr beeindruckt von dem Aufwand, den du da rein steckst! Respekt! Oh, wenn du in Leipzig wohnst: Weisst du, wie Naumburg so ist, oder wo genau? Ich muss da im Maerz hin fuer ein Wochenende und habe noch nie davon gehoert ... soll aber irgendwo suedlich von Leipzig sein. Angeblich. •g• Ist toll zu hoeren, dass du die Geschichten mochtest. Ich hoffe, dein Drucker stirbt nicht den fruehzeitigen Erschoepfungstod - was ja nicht unbedingt verwunderlich waere! Noch mal danke fuer die Review! •knuddelt wieder•  
**Tiryns** - Uhm, yes, I guess he kind of did. He's evil, what did you expect? •g• It does seem wrong, though, I'll freely admit it. Jack and my alter ego made me do it, I swear! •insincere smile• I'm glad you liked the Torture Scene Light, so to speak. Torturing Erestor isn't nearly as much fun as torturing Legolas/Aragorn/The twin etc. I need help, I know. •g• Oh, and yes, I did say something about ch. 20. I can't promise anything, of course, but it's a rather safe bet. •g• LOL, you're right, that would be a rather nice thing indeed - the only problem is that Glorfindel can hardly "rush" with a broken ankle. Knowing him, that won't stop him, though. •g•  
**Tineryn** - Don't worry about that. I'm just happy you managed to escape your "Evil parents and satan schedule". •shudders• That really DOES sound nasty. •g• Oh, and Glorfindel will indeed hasten - or rather hobble - to the rescue. Sooner or later, that is. •evil grin•  
**Celebdil-Galad - **I have to admit that I was a little confused first, but then I realised that you are in fact you and not Tinlaure. I know it sounds stupid, but well ... ignore me. I'm happy to see you. •g• I hope your exams went well - I know how annoying they can be, trust me. •grimaces• What exactly is a EMG test? I have to admit that I really don't know, but I try to keep away from hospitals as much as possible. Doctors are evil. ¾ of my family •are• doctors, so I know what I'm talking about. •g• I hope you're better now - this test does sound nasty! •huggles•  
**Marbienl** - Uhm, no, I have never heard of "De Efteling", even though I like the name "Langnek". I'm always surprised how much Dutch you can actually understand - when you read it, that is. Speaking or listening is another matter entirely. •g• ROTFL - Elvynd/Isál - Romeo/Juliet? Now that is an interesting comparison - slightly disturbing, but interesting. •g• And how did you know that I was thinking about that whole resetting-the-broken-fingers-by-breaking-them-again-thing? Huh? You're psychic, aren't you!? Admit it! •g• But I was only •thinking• about it, okay. I'm not saying I'm actually going to do it. •g• And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the bat. I'll try to put it in. Promise. And no, you won't get the key to Erestor's cell. Nu-uh. No way. Archaeology is great fun btw, thanks for asking. I have to do more for that than for History at the moment, but I still like History better. •shrugs• I AM weird, I know. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - •g• Good guess! It was Elvynd. •g• Why doesn't your mother approve of fanfiction? It's just like reading e-books, only ... crazier? Ah well, now that I think about it, I think I can see why... •g• I'm sorry about the fact that Legolas wasn't in the last chapter; he IS in this one though, so I hope you're not TOO cross. Don't worry about reviewing, just try and stand up to your brother! You have a right to be on the computer, too! •shakes fist•  
**Imbecamiel** - Well, I don't really love cliffies. They just ... come in handy, and are nice and shiny and ... oh, what the heck! I admit it, I LOVE cliffies! You're right! •g• I really have to say that I admire your self-control, though. I can never wait until a story is finished, and wouldn't have lasted longer than maybe 5 chapters. 17 is very impressive! •shakes hand and gives you a cookie• Congrats! •g• I hope this post was soon enough? Stupid question, isn't it, it's never soon enough. Pay me no heed, I'm rambling again. •g• Thank you very much for taking the time to review!  
**Golden Elf** - Yeah, yeah, yeah, Elvynd's alive. I caved in. Rub it in, will you? •g• J/k, I simply decided to stand up to my alter ego. She shall not rule my life! •shakes fist• Ah well. Whatever. •g• Celylith is indeed the most sensible one of the lot, even though I have the feeling that anyone in Rivendell/Mirkwood would agree. I don't know why either; all these mishaps aren't his fault! •g• Great to hear that you liked the Nazgûl. I think it's a rather scary mental picture, but that's just me. I AM weird and insane, after all. •g•  
**J-mercuryuk** - Oh, Jack is in fact a girl. Don't ask me why she chose "Jack" as a nickname. I will never understand her, I fear, even though she is "Philnili". •g• Don't ask. Trust me, you don't want to know. •g• I just didn't want to show that torture scene because it's Erestor this time, not one of the idiots ... uhm, I mean our heroes. I just can't torture elf lords, I don't know why either. •shrugs• I have to admit that I don't know what I'll do with Reod, even though he'll certainly not help Aragorn, Legolas & Co. like Cendan did last story. That would be boring, wouldn't it? •evil grin• I'll see what I can do about the Glorfindel POV, btw. •g•  
**Washow** - No need to thank me, really. It's really very nice that you take the time to actually •think• about my weird story, and the last thing I can do is answer your questions. I don't understand those authors you're talking about, btw. Flames are one thing, sure, but constructive criticism and/or questions are another. •shrugs• Ah well. You'll see what our travellers are up to in this chapter, don't worry. And you have a warg pack? Really? Can I have a cub? For ... uhm, Celylith? Please? I ... I mean, he would love to have one. •g•  
**Nicky** - I know, I know. I've needed ages to get into the right mood this time. For that horrid delay I apologise. I'm really sorry, but I promise you that there will be quite a bit of Aragorn/Legolas torture/angst/whatever in chapters 20/21 and maybe 22. I don't know yet, but something like that. Really. •g•  
**Elitenschwein** - Meinetwegen kannst du auch gerne weiter Mittwoch abens reviewen. Hab' ich gar nichts gegen, dann weiss ich wenigstens schon immer, von wem die Review ist... •g• Danke uebrigens fuer dein Lob. Ich habe irgendwie immer Angst, dass solche Szenen zu bombastisch, dramatisch und im allgemeinen zu ubertrieben werden. Schoen, dass sie dir gefallen hat! Und wer sagt, dass ich Elvynd irgendetwas zumuten werde? Moi? Ich bin doch ein ganz kleiner, lieber Mensch. So was mache ich doch nicht! •g• Trotzphasen hasse ich auch besonders. Ich fuehl' mich dann immer so wunderbar hilflos. •g•

**Thank you very, very much for all your kind words! Your reviews really mean a lot to me and help me to get the chapters out on time!**


	19. Something Wicked…

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Well, at least some people are happy that I let Elvynd live. •glares darkly at her alter ego• He is indeed quite nice and very useful - if he doesn't get himself nearly killed or something like that, of course. •g• Don't worry about any romantic scenes between Acalith and Gasur though. I think I'd die laughing if I ever tried to write something like that. •g•

As I said last week, I will NOT be able to update between now and about the 20th of February. I am really sorry about that, but I really don't have any time at all. I will try to write a little over the next two or three weeks, but during exam time I really can't promise anything. I will do my best not to leave you hanging for TOO long, though. We wouldn't want you to die from impatience and/or frustration, now would we? •readers give blank stares• I case you didn't know, the answer to that question would be No. I am evil, yes, but I'm not THAT evil. •g•

Anyway, here is chapter 19, and since it's going to be the last for a while, it has FOUR different scenes, not two or three. Yes, I actually did manage to make my characters shut up for once. •g• We therefore have the typical meeting in which the villain discuss their secret plans (well, at least some of them), Aragorn has a little talk with Elrohir during which they also discuss elven cuisine, and, due to popular demand, we have a little bit from Glorfindel's perspective (at least kind of). Oh, and at the end there's that little thing called ... cliffy. •evil grin• Come on, you know you missed them!

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 19  
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**Acalith let the short missive sink down onto her lap, her hands shaking slightly with something that could only have been called passionate anger. Even people who did not know her at all would have been able to tell that she was anything but happy, but all the men present knew her very well indeed.

Lady Acalith wasn't only angry. She was in fact very close to "livid", at least in the opinion of most of the people present in the small room. The sunlight that streamed into the room through the large window at her back didn't do anything to dispel that image; if anything, it made her face look only darker and more forbidding.

"Why wasn't I informed of this any sooner?" the young woman asked, in a soft tone of voice that belied the raw anger swirling in her blue eyes. "Answer me!"

It was in moments like these that Reod hated his position. Being Lady Acalith's senior captain had its advantages, certainly, but almost as many disadvantages in his opinion. One of them was that, in situations such as this one, people expected _him _to answer such questions. Both Gasur and Salir, the other two men who were present at the moment, were too shrewd and experienced not to try and melt into the walls right now.

"The letter arrived less than an hour ago, my lady," the chestnut haired captain inclined his head in respect – and because he didn't want to have to keep looking at Acalith's enraged face. "It was brought to you as quickly as possible."

He did in fact not point out that it was Lady Acalith's own fault that she had not received the message any earlier, since she had been taking a bath when the messenger had reached the house. That was something he would never tell her, not unless he suddenly developed a death wish or got stone-cold drunk. No, he wouldn't do something like that even if he was stone-cold drunk.

"I beg to differ, Captain," Acalith said coldly. "Why wasn't this letter sent yesterday evening? It says here that they arrived yesterday evening, shortly after sunset. We should have heard about this hours ago!"

Reod shrugged inwardly, not in the least willing to defend the sender of the letter. He had only met him a handful of times, when he had been escorting Salir or another high-ranking councillor to some secret meetings with him, but he didn't like him overly much. If he was too stupid to send such an important message any sooner, it was certainly not his problem.

Salir, however, took a small step forwards and opened his mouth, undoubtedly in order to draw Lady Acalith's attention. There had been a few rumours floating through the house lately, rumours that concerned their lady and _Gasur_ of all people and which were just too unlikely and disturbing to be put into clear-cut terms, and Reod was sure that Salir, too, had heard them and had liked them even less than he. Technically speaking, it was neither his nor Salir's business, but one could go over the top with the whole not-your-business thing.

"He would have found it hard to get the message to us any sooner, my lady," the grey haired man said. "Their arrival would have caused quite an uproar. It would have been nigh impossible for him to get away undetected and send word to us."

"It is his job to find a way to do so, Seneschal," Acalith retorted darkly. "That's what he's being paid for, after all. I have no use for a spy that informs us hours too late, if at all."

"He has never been remiss before" Salir told his mistress. "He can't risk his cover. If they ever found out that he is providing us with information, he would most likely find himself strung up outside his house in a matter of seconds."

"And why," Acalith asked coldly, "should I care overly much about that? I have bought one of them; I can buy another. And if your 'friend' does not take care and does his job a little more conscientiously, I will have to, too, because he will lose his head. Literally."

If Reod hadn't been so experienced and attached to life, he would have grinned. The way things were, however, he merely stared straight ahead, trying to produce the innocent air of a random piece of furniture. The less Lady Acalith, Gasur and Salir remembered his presence, the better. He was slightly surprised to hear his lady speak to Salir in such a manner, but not surprised enough to actually say anything. Besides, what did he have to say that could possibly be of interest to his lady? He didn't have the slightest idea what was going on here, after all.

Salir didn't say anything and merely inclined his head, too intelligent to try and argue with his lady when she was in this kind of mood. He'd had his doubts about the entire thing from the beginning, and if he wasn't careful, he'd end up saying "I told you so!" or something equally suicidal. He did, however, take a moment to glare darkly at a very smug-looking Gasur. He didn't have any proof that the dark haired captain was indeed responsible for any of this, but it was as good a guess as any.

A cold, very uncomfortable silence descended over the room, and finally Reod raised his head again, deciding that incurring his lady's wrath was better than having to stand here all morning. He had armouries to inspect, recruits to train and generally better things to do than stay here and watch his lady and the two men stare at each other. He was far too uninterested in politics and power for it.

"What do you wish us to do, my lady?"

"I want you to kill these annoying beings that insist on trying to ruin my plans," Acalith snapped at him, her fingers slowly closing around the piece of paper and beginning to crush it. "I have no idea how they got here so quickly, but I want them _gone_!"

"The message says that a part of them will investigate the site of the ambush today," Gasur said evenly, opening his mouth for the first time. "They already went there yesterday evening, but left rather soon because the sun was setting. They might imagine themselves safe, if we are lucky, because nothing happened to them yesterday."

"And then what, Captain?" Salir asked acidly. "You ambush them and kill all of them? How is that supposed to work?"

"Usually, Seneschal, that is quite easy," Gasur retorted in just the same tone of voice. "All it takes is a well-placed arrow, or a sword stroke, or a crossbow bolt, or…"

"Thank you, Gasur, for enumerating things all of us already know," Acalith told the dark haired captain in a rather annoyed tone of voice. Even though Reod still did not like the fact that their lady addressed his fellow captain like this, he was rather reassured that Lady Acalith was not willing to indulge him limitlessly.

"Forgive me, my lady," the dark haired captain inclined his head, in an appropriately chagrined manner that fooled no one.

"Salir is right about this manner," the young woman went on. "If our 'friend' is correct, two of the leaders of the party will stay in Aberon while the other two will travel to the ambush site with the larger part of their guards. They appear to have eighteen or nineteen guards with them, so we can assume that, all in all, you would be facing at least fourteen elves if we actually went ahead and did something like that." She calmly looked from Gasur to Reod. "And I don't really think I have to remind you of what happened the last time you and your men ambushed _seven _elves, do I?"

Anger mixed with hatred flashed to life in Gasur's eyes when the man shook his head mutely, apparently too enraged to even articulate a single word. While Reod was shaking his own head, doing his best to avoid his lady's cold, dark look, he realised that the younger captain next to him had begun to shake ever so slightly. Gasur, he thought wryly, had apparently still not really forgiven the elves for killing so many of his men, no matter how nonchalantly he had treated the topic when it had been breached after the battle.

"We can do it, my lady," Gasur ground out between gritted teeth, steadfastly refusing to look into Salir's direction. It was probably a good thing, too, since the older man was smirking rather openly. "Allow us to take two or three companies with us, and they won't stand a chance."

"Most likely not," Acalith agreed evenly. "I have the utmost confidence in your abilities, Gasur, and in Captain Reod's as well. I believe that you would manage to kill them, even though our forces might take heavy losses before you would achieve that goal. Perhaps you would even manage to kill all of them before one of them could escape, who knows. There is only one question: And what then?"

Gasur looked satisfyingly clueless for a moment or two, and Salir seized this chance to speak.  
"What then, my lady?"

"Yes, what then, Salir," Acalith said coldly, the ties that were connecting her with her patience apparently growing weaker and weaker. "There may be many things one can say about the Elves, but they are not stupid. How do you think the rest of their party would react if their friends turned up dead, coincidentally slain by some more 'orcs'?"

Reod winced inwardly as he answered that question.  
"They will return home as quickly as possible."

"Correct, Captain," the dark haired woman nodded. "They will return home, and tell their lord what happened. I do not pretend to know the Lord of Rivendell well enough to predict just how exactly he will react, but let me assure you that he will not be pleased. Within less than a fortnight, we would have an elven army camping on our doorstep."

It was silent for a few moments before Gasur nodded slowly and raised his light brown eyes to look at his lady.  
"As much as I hate to say this, but that would be most unfortunate, my lady."

"'Unfortunate' is such an uncharacteristically moderate expression for you, Captain," Salir commented snidely. "It would be a disaster! We cannot possibly withstand such an attack, can we, Captain Reod!"

Reod glared at the older man, secretly wishing him into the darkest pits the afterlife had in store for the people of this world. He had been perfectly happy trying to keep out of this, and this man went and ruined everything! Still annoyed, he turned to Salir and shook his head coldly and in a very definite manner.

"Let's just say that you would have better chances of survival if you went into an orc camp alone, scrubbed, naked and coated with honey and spices."

Now it was Salir's turn to glare at the chestnut haired man, and under any other circumstances, Reod might even have been impressed. Right now, however, he was anything but, since he most certainly had other things on his mind, namely the none-too-attractive vision of a horde of angry elves that were cutting him into tiny pieces.

Acalith merely looked at the older captain in front of her and quirked a fine, dark eyebrow, her eyes as unreadable as always.  
"Thank you for that comparison, Captain." Reod knew better than to say anything and merely bowed his head, and so she turned back to the other two men in the room. "The facts remain, however. We cannot risk to face both Aberon and Rivendell, at least not now. I assume that you followed my orders and set the plan in motion?"

Reod shortly asked himself who in their right minds would actually answer such a question with "No" while he mumbled an affirmative, quickly followed by Salir and Gasur. Of course they had set the plan in motion; they had been preparing for it for months now, after all, and the weather, too, had been favourable.

"Good," Acalith went on, quickly nodding her head in satisfaction. "How much more time do you need?"

"Ideally, at least two weeks," Salir reported before Reod could open his mouth. "Half that time if we hurry our efforts."

"I would strongly advise to do that," the dark haired woman told him emotionlessly. "You have five days, not a day longer."

"But my lady!" Salir began, his eyes wide with disbelief. "That is impossible, the men simply cannot work any faster than they already are without risking discovery and…"

"We hear you, my lady. It will be done," Reod quickly interrupted the grey haired man, all his instincts screaming at him in warning.

He had felt this particular, urgent warning a few times in his life, and most of the time he had been rushed by a group of armed men or orcs shortly after. Right now was a time to nod and be silent and not to talk back to their lady whose eyes were narrowing into thin slits right now, and even though he had little love for Salir, he didn't want to be here when the young woman truly lost her temper.

"Good," Acalith nodded her head, pushing a long, curly strand of dark hair away from her face. "I hope for your sake that you do not fail me." She looked intently from one of the men in front of her to the other. "The elves must not disturb us; they must not disturb _me_. In five days' time, the Lord of Rivendell will not even think to ask about what happened with his envoys, both the dear Lord Erestor and the new ones, because he will have a whole new set of problems to deal with. But until then, I want them not to bother me, do you understand me?"

The three men nodded mutely, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Reod was once again trying to blend into the scenery; the absolutely last thing he would do was try and come up with a plan that would result in him and his men having to deal with even more elves. He could still not get the expression of the one they'd captured out of his head, and he did _not _want to be forced to fight more of his thrice-cursed race. By now he was firmly convinced that the Gods did not look kindly upon those who killed elves, no matter in how unbloody a manner.

Salir didn't say anything either – something that was not surprising, really, since Salir knew close to nothing about anything that was connected to warfare – but after a few moments Gasur raised his head, a sparkle in his eyes that Reod seen only once or twice in the relatively short time he had known him. It had usually heralded slaughter, torture or something equally messy.

"What if the leaders were to … disappear, my lady?"

Acalith's eyes narrowed even further, but interest began to gleam in the dark blue depths.  
"Explain."

"Well," the man began, pushing back a strand of dark, unbound hair in an anticipatory manner that simply couldn't be a good sign, "If their leaders disappeared, without a trace, of course – wouldn't that be enough to ensure the elves' distraction? If they were to vanish in Aberon, their guards will search for days, and yet find nothing. Since they are not stupid, they will of course suspect that the good townsfolk of Aberon are to blame, and, if we are lucky, will start to kill them for us."

"It would both distract them and shift the blame on Aberon," Reod nodded, almost against his will. He had no desire to attract any unnecessary attention, least of all Gasur's, but he had to admit that his idea was a good one. They only needed to divert the elves' attention for a few days, if everything went according to plan, that was. "That could actually work."

"_I _will decide that, Captain, if you don't mind," Acalith told him coldly, but without real spite behind her words. She was far too intrigued by this idea to have time for anything else.

"How would you make them 'disappear', Captain?" Salir asked while he was clearly trying to suppress his anger about the fact that Gasur had come up with an idea about which their lady was actually pleased. "Will you snap your fingers and say a few magic words?"

Gasur's face darkened, and he unconsciously took a step forwards.  
"I will do something completely different if you don't…"

"Enough!" Acalith's voice cut through the room like a whip. "We don't have time for this nonsense! He has a point, though, Gasur: How are you planning to do something like that?"

Gasur gave the older man a last dark look that was returned only half a second later and turned back to his lady.  
"That, my lady, would be the moment our … 'friend' in Aberon comes into play. It's about time he did something for his money, wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed," the young woman agreed softly. "He has not been very helpful until now. Tell me more about your plan. In a moment."

She interrupted herself and reached for a small bell on a high, round table next to her, and a moment after she had rung it a servant girl opened the door and entered the room, a tablet with four full wine goblets balanced in her hands. Reod watched the girl while she was handing out the cups, keeping her eyes wisely cast down. She was a pretty wench, he thought, certainly not a beauty, but comely enough with long, light brown hair and quite a bit of freckles on her nose. He amused himself with several very pleasing visions of her in a state in which she would be wearing decidedly less than she was now, and only when the girl was exiting the room did he turn back around, looking at Gasur as evenly as he could.

For a moment, he merely looked at the younger man who was sipping wine from his goblet, his light brown eyes fixed openly on Lady Acalith.

"And what will you do with the elves once you've managed to make them 'disappear', Gasur?" he asked, a little curiously.

Gasur looked up, looking rather surprised for a moment, before he exchanged a mildly amused look with the young woman sitting in the large, wooden chair and turned back to him.  
"Why, Reod," he began with a smile, "Kill them, of course."

Reod shrugged inwardly while he nodded at his fellow captain and took another long swallow from his wine goblet. Of course.

**  
****  
****  
**

He hated this town. He hadn't been here for much longer than twelve hours, but he already hated it, despite the fact that no one had done anything to hurt him in any way.

Elrohir sighed and leaned his forehead against the window frame, closing his eyes against the bright light of the sun that was filtering through the opening and enjoying the soft breeze on his face. It was a beautiful day, the first day without rain he had seen for quite a long time. It was anyone's guess how long that would last, considering that it had started to pour with rain every day by midday since they had left Rivendell, but it was quite nice for a change.

The dark haired twin sighed again. He did not like Aberon. He did not like the way the people looked at them, he did not like the way the humans stopped speaking as soon they drew near, and he did not like the town itself. It was a nice enough place, granted, relatively clean with many broad roads and streets and large, well-kept buildings that spoke of the town's wealth, but he did not trust the appearance one bit. If it were up to him, he would take Aragorn by the arm with one hand and Legolas by the other and get out of here as quickly as possible.

Elrohir grinned slightly, raising his head again to stare out of the window. If he knew the two of them at all, they were already half-way stuck in a horrible, potentially deadly situation. He was beginning to get the feeling that this would turn into another journey that would go horribly wrong at one point or another.

He scowled darkly at the bustling street beneath him. Whom was he kidding anyway? It wouldn't happen at one point or another, it would happen soon, or rather right about now. You never got a break when you were travelling with his human brother or the Prince of Mirkwood, that was something he had learnt the hard way. There were also some – in his opinion rather unstable – people who were saying the same about travelling with Elladan and him, but that was by no means the same thing.

A part of him noticed familiar footsteps that were drawing closer to his room, but Elrohir didn't even have to turn around to identify their owner. They sounded strange, at least to the sharp ears of an elf, since they were neither heavy enough to belong to a man nor truly light enough for one of the Firstborn, and so Elrohir wasn't surprised at all to hear the voice of his youngest sibling a second after the door behind him opened with a small creak.

"If Elladan was here, he would strangle you."

"He most likely would," Elrohir agreed without turning around. "He is always mad when I 'brood', as he calls it."

"You _do _brood, _muindor nín_," Aragorn's voice announced behind him, sounding rather smug. "Rather often, if I may add."

"You may not, whelp," Elrohir told his younger brother, mock seriousness in his voice. "And besides, tell me, what is blacker, a crow or a raven? Which one of us is the one who barely escaped the nickname _Longûr_? Which one of us is frequently thrown out of the Hall of Fire for 'being too gloomy'? Which one of us…"

"I have _never _been thrown out of the Hall of Fire!" Aragorn exclaimed indignantly. "Well," he added after a moment, stepping closer to his brother, "except that one time maybe. But that was hardly my fault!"

"It never is, is it?" Elrohir shook his head. "You're innocent and simply misunderstood."

"Now, after more than twenty years, you begin to understand," the man grinned. "It took you long enough, too."

"You should have a little more respect for your elders, young one," Elrohir chided him sternly, knowing full well how much his brother despised being called "young one".

"Everyone in Rivendell is my elder," the dark haired ranger snorted and stepped next to his brother, setting his elbows onto the windowsill and staring down onto the street. "I would hardly get to do anything _but _show respect to everyone once I started with it."

"That would at least give you less time to get yourself into trouble."

Aragorn didn't say anything for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the busy streets beneath their window, but then he turned slightly and looked at his elven brother, open concern in the silver-grey depths.  
"That is what you are worried about, isn't it? That something might happen?"

Elrohir quirked a dark eyebrow half-mockingly and half-curiously.  
"You need not use that particular word, my brother. Something _will _happen. It's just a question of when, where, and to whom it will happen first."

"You have been talking to Glorfindel again," Aragorn accused his elven brother. "You sound almost as negative as he." He shook his head, lowering his eyes and staring at his bandaged hand. "But you do have a point. I have a very bad feeling about this."

"Now who has been talking to Glorfindel?" the elf joked half-heartedly. "Then again," he added, "In comparison to Erestor Glorfindel is an amateur when it comes to being foreboding, gloomy and disapproving."

The dark haired elf didn't say more, staring unseeingly into the distance, and Aragorn slowly reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.  
"You knew that the chances of finding anything yesterday were slim at best. We didn't have enough time to actually have a look around; we didn't even find all the graves."

"Yes, I knew that," Elrohir nodded quickly. "I wasn't expecting a sign with the words 'If you wish to know the answers to all your questions, please come this way!' or anything of the like. I was just … hoping."

"I know, Elrohir, I know," Aragorn sighed and tightened his hold on his adopted brother's shoulder. "So were all of us."

"I miss him, you know," the dark haired elf said softly. "Erestor was always there when I needed someone to talk. Most people who didn't know him well found him arrogant and aloof, but he wasn't. Once you got over your fear of his cold glares and got to know him, you would discover a caring, wise elf who would never abandon you, _never_. I miss him and his sarcastic wit, and he hasn't been gone for much longer than two weeks."

"Since when does that matter?" Aragorn asked darkly. "I hardly knew my parents at all and they have been dead for over twenty years now, and still I wake up sometimes and miss them so much it actually hurts."

"They were good people, noble, brave and kind," Elrohir smiled at his younger brother. "Elladan and I do not tell you often enough, mostly in order not to raise your ego to even greater heights, but they would have been very, very proud of you."

"Thank you," the young man bowed his head, trying to hide a small blush. "You know that means a lot to me." Elrohir merely nodded, and Aragorn added after a moment, "Erestor was very proud of you as well; you would have to be blind not to see it. You have been his favourite student for a long time now, Elrohir."

"Elladan could never get over his fear of him completely," Elrohir grinned. "He has a point, mind you. Apart from _ada_, Erestor is … was the most fearsome being I have ever known. Except maybe Glorfindel or grandmother and grandfather when they are really, really angry."

"I don't really know," Aragorn frowned thoughtfully. "I think King Thranduil can be quite impressive as well."

"Don't believe everything that wood-elf tells you," Elrohir waved a hand dismissively. "He has never seen Glorfindel or grandmother when they're furious."

Aragorn watched his stony-faced brother for a few moments, not really knowing what to say.  
"You can go with Legolas, you know," he finally offered. "I can handle the council on my own – if worst comes to worst, I will simply stall, and _that _is something at which I am very good. If you leave Isál here instead, I'll be fine."

"No," Elrohir shook his head darkly, realising that Estel knew better than to try and convince him to let him stay in Aberon alone. "You wouldn't be, because Isál would find a way to get the two of you into trouble. I was surprised that he didn't attack anyone yesterday evening."

"Not only you," the man smiled thinly. "When Hurag invited us to stay in his house, I was sure he would lunge at him or at least bite him in the arm. He was eyeing him just like a hungry warg, I swear to you he was."

"He _is _giving his men last-minute instructions right now, isn't he?" Elrohir asked in concern. "I would hate to pluck him off Master Hurag's cooling corpse, even though I have to admit that I would do it reluctantly."

Aragorn merely grinned and nodded, not having the will to disagree with his brother's words. Isál would most likely have done something rather inappropriate and drastic to Hurag or another man if he hadn't been restrained by the very steely hand of one of his warriors. He, too, thought that Hurag had only invited them to stay in one of his houses at the edge of the town because he wanted to keep an eye on them, and even though he had tried very hard to think of a reason not to accept that invitation, they'd had to in the end. It wouldn't have looked very friendly to refuse such an offer, least of all when it was being made by one of the leading members of Aberon's council.

"I am still certain that he picked his smallest and most run-down house, however," Elrohir went on. "How many houses can a trader have, anyway?" Aragorn merely shrugged, and so his elven brother added, "Be that as it may, he could at least have given each of us our own room, instead of putting two of us in one. Or they could have put our warriors into a house, not a stable."

"Well, you have to admit that it is a little hard to find enough space for twenty-two uninvited, unwanted guests on such short notice, and that in a crowded town," Aragorn told his brother calmly. "That they are willing to speak with us this morning is sign of their good will."

"I had to glare at Toran, Hurag and the other councilmen for nearly two minutes before they caved in and agreed to talk!" Elrohir exclaimed. "If I wasn't so annoyed by this entire town, I would be even impressed! Most humans can't even hold out for thirty seconds, and the record was one minute fifteen seconds until now, I believe."

"This town and its inhabitants are full of surprises," Aragorn agreed, noting that the group of elven warriors that would accompany Legolas and Isál to the site of the ambush was beginning to lead their horses out of the stables to the right of the house. "They are ready to leave, Elrohir. Why don't you go with Legolas and see if you can find anything that might tell us what happened to Erestor and the others? Isál can stay here in your stead."

"No, Estel, but thank you," Elrohir smiled slightly. "As much as I want to leave, I am the highest-raking envoy this time. Technically speaking, Legolas does 'outrank' me, surely, but this has nothing to do with Mirkwood or her interests. If one of us has to talk to Aberon's council, it is me. If we are lucky, they might actually tell us something, especially if they are feeling reassured by your presence. It always seems to calm humans if they see one of their kind with us. They probably regard it as proof that, contrary to popular belief, we do _not _eat all men we come across."

"Who said anything about eating?" Aragorn asked, arching a dark eyebrow. "Noldor don't do something like that, at least as a rule, everybody knows that. The Wood-elves are the ones who roast people on spits, just ask Legolas. You and the rest of Rivendell, my dear brother, prefer to drink people's blood."

"Indeed we do," Elrohir nodded solemnly, turning back from the window. "Now that you mention it, I haven't had any breakfast yet."

"You can have any man that causes us any trouble during the talks," Aragorn promised his elven brother while they walked into the direction of the door. "I would advise against Hurag, though. I cannot imagine his blood to be overly sweet."

"Good advice, _muindor nín_," the dark haired elf grinned, patting the younger being on the back.

"Thank you," the ranger inclined his head modestly, "I do what I can." His face turned serious quickly, and when Elrohir was reaching for the doorhandle, he added softly, "They will find something, Elrohir. Isál and his men have the best motivation one can possibly imagine, and Legolas is a wood-elf. If there is even the slightest trace among the trees of those who did this, he will find it."

Elrohir nodded seriously, a small smile on his lips, before he turned the nod into a rather vague shrug and a small, teasing glint appeared in his grey eyes.  
"I would like to believe you, Estel, I really would," he stated with mock seriousness while they walked down the corridor that would lead them to the main staircase. "I can't, though."

"Oh?" the young man asked. "And why not?"

Elrohir stopped for a moment to give his younger brother an almost pitying look.  
"Please, Estel. How am I supposed to trust into the abilities of an elf who eats wine sauce with roast man flesh? I mean, honestly, everybody knows it's a lot better with herbs!"

Before Aragorn could say anything, Elrohir had disappeared down the old, creaking wooden steps and vanished from view. After a second or two the young ranger began to follow his adopted brother, pondering how he should explain to his father that his younger elven son had finally gone mad.

Then again, if he knew Elrond at all, he would not be overly surprised by such news anyway.

**  
****  
****  
**

Elrond had finally gone mad, Glorfindel decided darkly. Or maybe he had always been mad, and he only hadn't noticed until now.

The golden haired elf scowled at his surroundings, which was quite pointless since his men knew better than to be anywhere near him at the moment. Most of them had known him for a long, long time and knew that, when he was looking like this, it was better to be silent and assume the appearance of empty air.

The only person who looked thoroughly unimpressed by his air of malevolence was Elrond, which wasn't really surprising now that he thought about it. He _was _mad, after all, or at least he thought so. He might be suffering from a temporary bout of madness, but, if nothing else, Elrond was a consistent and steady being. He wouldn't only go mad temporarily; it was just not in his nature to do anything half-way.

Just what did that stupid, reckless, thoughtless, _brainless _half-elf think he was doing? He was the Lord of Imladris, not to mention his best friend, and he shouldn't be riding off on a rather dubious mission like this! He was too important to lose, far too important, and Glorfindel for one did not think that he would survive it were he to lose Elrond, too.

Inwardly, Glorfindel understood perfectly well why Elrond was doing what he was doing. If it were his sons who were facing almost certain danger, he would most likely do the same. But that, he told himself, was what warriors were for. It was their job – _his _job – to ensure their lords' safety and well-being, and Elrond had no business going and endangering his life like the rest of them.

Not that the dark haired elf lord had listened when he had told him exactly that, Glorfindel mused darkly, staring at his lord's back with enough fierceness to burn tiny albeit invisible holes into Elrond's dark grey travelling cloak. Elrond had merely mumbled something unintelligible under his breath during his admittedly rather long speech and had nodded at regular intervals, and had in the end merely told him that he was the Lord of Rivendell and intended to do exactly what he pleased.

Of course Elrond was the Lord of Rivendell, that was the whole point, the golden haired elf thought, enraged. He had told Elrond that he was too important to all of Arda to lose, that it was foolish and reckless of him to risk his life like this, that his entire behaviour was completely unbefitting an elf lord and, as a last, admittedly rather desperate resort, had even told him that Celebrían would have his hide should she ever hear about this, but Elrond had not budged even an inch. The half-elf had, in his inborn, deeply-instilled stubbornness, decided that this course of action was the right one and that he would therefore not back down, no matter what anybody told him, Glorfindel and the rest of the council included.

He was just like the rest of his family, the fair haired elf decided, not for the first time one might add. This completely idiotic behaviour was one he was very familiar with and which the half-elf undoubtedly owed to Tuor and his wife, the Lady Idril, and most likely to Lúthien Tinúviel's descendants as well. The whole lot of them had been stubborn to a fault and unable to back down when they thought themselves to be right, no matter the cost or the consequences. Elrond would follow this course of action no matter what everyone else was saying and no matter what would happen to him, and nothing short of a direct order from one of the higher-ranking Valar would be able to sway his mind.

Glorfindel smiled grimly when he imagined Aulë or maybe Yavanna try and argue with Elrond. Poor, innocent Ainur, he thought wryly. They wouldn't stand the slightest chance.

The golden haired elf narrowed his eyes in annoyance, clinging to his anger as a means to ignore the throbbing ache in his broken ankle. He was not saying that Elrond was incapable of looking after himself – he would never say that, since he was rather attached to his head. Elrond had been a warrior longer than he had been a scholar, and even now the half-elf trained regularly with him or some of the other captains. The first person to think that Elrond was in any way helpless would quickly be disabused, most likely by losing a few limbs.

Yet that didn't change anything, Glorfindel decided stubbornly. Elrond was his lord, and even though they might have small disagreements now and then, he liked to believe that he served him and his house faithfully. The half-elf might be able to cut a company of orcs into ribbons in less than half an hour when he was properly motivated, but that did not mean that he could simply run off like this and get himself into trouble like…

"My lord?"

Cursing himself for not hearing the other's approach, Glorfindel looked up as nonchalantly as possible. A young elf had manoeuvred his horse next to Asfaloth, and the elf's faintly gleaming silver hair was enough to tell Glorfindel right away who it was.  
"Son of Celythramir," he nodded with a small, but genuine smile. "Did they try to tie you up and you escaped or did you manage to convince Lord Elrond to let you come?"

Celylith smiled modestly and shrugged a little.  
"It was not too hard to achieve. Tying up a diplomatic envoy is a dubious choice at best, and I believe that Lord Elrond would have agreed to almost anything as long as I didn't bother him for long and let him prepare for the journey."

"You might be right about that, young one," Glorfindel nodded glumly, once again turning slightly to glare at his either unsuspecting or completely unimpressed friend's back. "He is stubborn, just like his sons."

"I hear you, my lord," the silver haired elf nodded seriously. "They are a menace, actually."

"A menace that has once again managed to get itself into trouble," the older elf said solemnly. "Speaking of which: Where is one-third of said menace?"

"Further back, my lord," Celylith answered, turning slightly and pointing behind them, some way down the long column of elven warriors. "He was speaking with Thalar when I left him and was of course in no pain at all." He looked back at the golden haired elf next to him, a small, teasing glint in his eyes. "I heard you had injured an ankle, my lord?"

"I?" Glorfindel asked, an air of profound innocence surrounding his figure. "I have no idea what you are talking about, _pen-neth_. I am just fine."

"If you say so, my lord," Celylith smiled slightly, not in the least convinced. Glorfindel merely looked at him without saying anything, and so he added a few moments later, his voice softer and more serious, "Elladan told me most of what happened these past two weeks. I am glad that now there is at least the chance that Lord Erestor still lives."

Glorfindel looked at him for a long time, not really knowing what he should say. He was still not sure how much he could allow himself to believe that Erestor was still alive, how much of such a hope he could endure without going insane. The sadness and anger in his heart had been joined by hope, so fierce and sometimes even painful that he could hardly bear it. He knew that, if it turned out that these humans had killed his friend after all, he would fall even deeper into darkness and despair, but no matter how hard he tried to contain the hope for Erestor's survival, he could not manage to do so. It was beating against the shields around his heart like a bird's wings against its cage, setting his whole body alight with joy from time to time, and he knew that he would kill himself before he would willingly give it up.

"I thank you," he finally said quietly. "If he is still alive, I will find him, and punish those who dared capture him and who killed my men."

"Why would the men of Donrag do something like this?" Celylith asked, looking thoroughly confused. "They must know that such a deed will not go unpunished!"

"Well, for one they did not expect anyone to survive their little ambush," the older elf began, barely concealed anger and bitterness on his face. "They expected us to send a small party to verify their statements, maybe, which we promptly did. But I have to admit that I have not the slightest idea what is going on to the south of here. I tried to ask that thick-headed … I mean, Lord Elrond before we set out this morning, but I received no answer."

"But, my lord," the wood-elf interjected, "that is what I do not understand. The inhabitants of Aberon informed you of your delegation's demise, did they not? Lord Erestor and the others had been staying there, I believe, so how did Donrag hear about their visit, when the two towns are at odds? Or how, for that matter, would they know when they would leave Aberon, or where they were going?"

"That," Glorfindel nodded slowly, an unreadable glint in his blue eyes, "is indeed a very good question, Celylith. It is in fact a question I have been asking myself lately."

"And what about the answer, my lord?"

"There is someone in Aberon who supplies Donrag with information, out of whatever reasons," the golden haired elf stated darkly. "There is someone who has betrayed Lord Erestor and my men, someone who might, right now, be betraying Lord Elrond's sons and your prince."

"That is bad news indeed, my lord," Celylith whispered softly. "I should have been here sooner. I should have accompanied my prince."

"Have you learnt nothing during our last journey, _pen-neth_?" Glorfindel asked quietly, looking intently at the younger elf. "You cannot protect someone forever. You cannot spend your life pondering what might have been if things had been different – it will drive you mad after a century or two. There is enough guilt in the world to go round without us grabbing even more of it."

"I know," the silver haired elf inclined his head minutely. "I know that. But it is hard to be here, so far away from them, and be unable to do anything to help them."

"Indeed it is," Glorfindel nodded as well. "It never gets any easier, either." He fell silent for a moment before he raised his head again, changing the topic rather inelegantly. "How is your hand, young one?"

"What, this one?" Celylith asked, a little surprised, and raised his right hand, flexing long, calloused fingers. "As good as new, my lord. Master Hithrawyn is a most capable healer, even despite his sometimes rather … strange … mood swings. He assured me, however, that one or two fingers might have remained stiff if you hadn't set them so expertly."

The older elf shook his head, doing his best not to think about these few minutes in a dark cell in which he had been forced to set Celylith's dislocated fingers one by one. It had been one of the few moments in this life in which he had been truly afraid, afraid that he would make a mistake and doom the young silver haired warrior to a life of disability.

"I am glad to hear that," Glorfindel smiled, tearing himself away from the memory of the unforgettable sound of a joint being forced back into its socket. "I am no healer and by no means overly skilled in such manners, and am happy that I did not make a mistake."

Celylith returned the smile before a frown began to spread over his face and he began to rummage through his pockets. When he didn't find what he was obviously looking for, he turned slightly on his horse's back, opening one of his saddlebags and searching through it.

"I have something for you, my lord," he told Glorfindel without turning around to look at him. "I wanted to give it to you before you left Mirkwood, but all of you left rather suddenly and so I didn't have the time…"

"What are you talking about, young one?"

"This," the silver haired elf answered while his fingers closed around a bundle wrapped in soft green cloth. "I keep my promises, my lord, and remember my vows."

Glorfindel looked at the longish bundle before he took it, fervently trying to figure out what the younger elf was talking about.

"You haven't had any encounters with spiders lately, have you, Celylith? Maybe on your way here? Their venom can be quite potent, I believe," he asked, confused, while he unwrapped the bundle. The green cloth fell away to reveal a length of oilcloth that was covering two longish, slim objects, and he pulled it off, too, comprehension beginning to dawn on him. After another moment the objects were revealed, causing his eyes to grow quite large. "Oh."

"We had a bet going," Celylith simply stated seriously. "You won fair and square, to my never-ending relief. I keep my word."

Glorfindel looked up from the pair of long, beautifully crafted daggers to fix unbelieving eyes on the younger elf.  
"I was not being serious, young one. We were both expecting to die within hours when we made that bet. I cannot accept this."

"Yes, you can, my lord," the other nodded his head firmly. "Unless you want to shame me and my family by refusing to accept that which I owe you, that is."

"A nice try, Celylith," Glorfindel smiled, looking rather unimpressed. "You owe me nothing, nothing at all, and I were to shame myself if I accepted these admittedly rather _exquisite _weapons."

"How can you say that?" the younger elf asked unbelievingly. "I owe you my life and, more than that, the life of my prince! A pair of daggers could never even begin to pay back that debt, I'll admit that, but a bet is a bet. They are yours, my lord. I have no use for them."

Glorfindel snorted softly and shook his head, his resolve obviously weakening.  
"I bet you don't."

"One bet is more than enough," Celylith smiled. "Please, my lord. Take them. If nothing else, you can use them to kill a few of these madmen in Donrag."

Glorfindel looked back at the silver haired elf, a small, grim smile finally spreading over his face while his hands were grasping the daggers more tightly.  
"Oh yes," he said softly, "I believe I could do that."

And Celylith, looking at the fair haired elf who was wearing one of the most disconcerting smiles he had ever seen, decided that that was something he could believe without question or doubt.

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Pacing started to sound more tempting and tempting by the second right now. In fact, it did sound _most _tempting, and if he had been alone, he would most likely have given in to that rather strong impulse.

He was, however, not alone, Legolas reminded himself not for the first time. "Pacing" came right after "wrestling in the mud" on the universal Things-a-proper-elf-lord-ever-does-list, and Aragorn knew that perfectly well, too. There was no way he would start pacing in the young ranger's presence, even though he was not completely sure if he was still awake. He always found it hard to tell with humans.

But, Valar, pacing would help him to get rid of all the useless, almost nauseating energy inside of him. Legolas forced his legs to remain motionless and began to tap against the wooden bedframe on which he was sitting, not at all caring how openly nervous and maybe even childish this behaviour was.

He did not like this town. Tap. He did not like this town's council. Tap. He did not like Hurag, or Toran, or any other of the town's leaders he had met until now. Tap. He did not like this house, or the fact that they had been separated from their warriors, or the fact that Elrohir's and Isál's room was on the other side of the house and a storey beneath them, or the fact that…

"All right," Aragorn's rather sleepy voice interrupted his inner monologue. "Stop it. If your intention was to keep me from sleeping, you have succeeded quite nicely."

Legolas grimaced inwardly and raised his head, looking guiltily and somewhat sheepishly at his human friend who was right now propping himself up in his bed, his hair tousled and eyes slightly glazed with sleep. With a loud, theatrical sigh Aragorn sat up and made a point of slowly putting his boots back on before he turned to the fair haired elf sitting across him.

"I know you want to start pacing, so please do both of us a favour and just start, all right?"

"I do not want to start pacing," Legolas denied his friend's words. "I am merely a little … restless, that's all."

"When you start tapping things, you are close to snapping," Aragorn snorted and shook his head, his eyes losing their sleepy haze as he began to look more closely at the elven prince. "Tell me what is wrong so I can finally go to sleep! Not all of us can do without a few hours of sleep a night, you know."

"What do you mean, 'tell you what is wrong'?" Legolas arched an eyebrow incredulously. "Do you honestly have to ask?"

"Humour me," Aragorn grumbled, looking in one of his bags that were sitting on the floor next to his bed for another tunic, preferably one with long sleeves. Even though Legolas had kept a small fire going in the hearth, it was rather cold in the room. The house was old, after all, and rather draughty, too.

"Fine," Legolas retorted in a similar tone of voice, once again forcing himself to remain where he was. "One: Isál's men and I spent the whole day searching the site of the ambush. We cannot be sure because of the constant rain, but we found nothing, absolutely nothing that points to any recent orc activity. We did find some horse tracks up the hill to the east of the road, however. That means that someone, most likely Master Toran, has been lying to us from the start, since orcs do not use horses in case you did not know."

"I did know, thank you very much."

Legolas ignored the young man's words and continued, apparently getting into the spirit of things.  
"Two: There are only five graves. I don't know about you, but when I add six and one, I get seven, not five. Did you see the look on Toran's face when I asked him about it? Did you hear what he said?"

Aragorn merely shrugged. There was nothing to say to this, really, since, in contrast to what Legolas was apparently thinking, he was neither deaf nor blind. He had heard the councilman's explanation; he had been waiting for Legolas when he and the others had returned a few hours ago, confused and rather angry. Toran had realised that, too, and had tried to convince them that some of the warriors had been too … what had been the word the man had used? ... yes, too "mauled" when they had found them to require separate graves. They had therefore put four of the dead elves into only two graves instead of giving each of them a single one, even though there had definitely been seven bodies.

The young ranger growled inwardly. Just how stupid did these people think them to be? It wasn't as if there had been any lack of space at all, so why go to all this trouble of putting seven bodies into five graves? And besides, not even the members of Aberon's town council, whom he had found to be _exceptionally _stupid over the course of the day, could be stupid enough to provoke Elrond's wrath by improperly caring for the fallen elves' bodies.

"Three: Elrohir and you have spent the whole day talking to these … thick-headed idiots who are only half a step away from being as stupid as a bunch of cave-trolls, and what have you found out? I tell you what you've found out! Nothing! Nothing at all!" Legolas raised his hands in exasperation. "Tell me, Estel, what about our current situation could be called 'all right' or 'satisfactory'?"

Aragorn was about to open his mouth to say something when Legolas made a small sound of disgust and finally got to his feet, beginning to start pacing up and down the room despite the ranger's pointedly raised eyebrow.

"Just once I would like everything to go according to plan!" the fair haired elf exclaimed, staring at the rather large, but very plain room with a dark expression on his face. "It would be so nice to go somewhere, get what you need in a matter of minutes and be able to depart again without being lied to, misdirected or ignored in any way! Just once, for Elbereth's sake!"

"Are you finished ranting?" Aragorn asked calmly when Legolas stopped for a short breath. "Or should I continue staring at my hands and wondering if I can strangle myself with my own bandage?"

"If you are not prepared to listen to what I have to say, don't ask," Legolas told him curtly.

Aragorn merely raised an eyebrow and reached for the burning candle on the small nightstand to light another one, and the elf bowed his head a moment later, chagrined. He would never understand how the man did it, but he somehow could make him feel guilty in less than a second, just like his father and Lord Elrond.

"I am sorry, _mellon nín_; I did not mean to snap at you," he told the dark haired ranger more quietly. "I am merely worried. Someone in this town is not telling us the whole truth – no, allow me to correct myself, _nobody _is! There is something going on here, something sinister, and I don't know what or who is involved. If this were one of my father's missions and I were in charge, I would leave. Now."

"Elrohir said the same thing earlier today," Aragorn nodded slowly, seriousness and uncertainty beginning on his face. "He does, in fact, want to leave tomorrow afternoon, no matter what happens. It won't help Erestor or anyone else if we get ourselves into trouble."

"Do you share Isál's belief, or rather, his hope?" Legolas asked softly. "Do you believe that some of them may still be alive, that all this was a trick to mask something else? Do you believe that, out of reasons I cannot possibly hope to understand, Aberon's council wants to deceive us?"

"I … don't really know, Legolas," Aragorn admitted after a moment. "Elrohir and I talked about it while you were gone. I don't know, but if I had to choose between believing it and not believing it, I would have to say that, yes, I do believe that Isál is on to something. The more we find out the less everything makes sense and the less the pieces seem to fit together. I do not know what to think, but I do know that nothing Toran and the others told us was the whole truth."

"They wouldn't even recognise the whole truth if it appeared in front of them, stark naked, and began to dance," the elf commented darkly.

"No, most likely not," Aragorn admitted. "I wish _ada _or Erestor were here. They would see through this in a matter of hours. Elrohir is skilled in diplomatic exchanges and tactics, much more than Elladan, that much is sure, but he is not skilled enough for this; he admits it himself." He fell silent for a moment, dark shadows dancing over his already darkened face. "We could dig up the bodies to make sure," he finally suggested, his voice barely more than a whisper. "The Valar know that I would do everything rather than that, but it is the only way to make sure."

"We would have to talk with Elrohir and the others about this," Legolas said seriously. "But you are right. Since none of these _edain _here is willing to shed any light on what happened to Erestor and the others, it would be the only way to ever make sure. And I believe that we owe their families at least that closure, if we can't give them anything else."

"Isál hopes," the young man nodded softly, a small, sad smile on his lips. "He hopes that Elvynd might still be alive. You can see it in his eyes, no matter how much he tries to hide it."

"Now he has at least a reason to," Legolas nodded as well. "As you said, something doesn't add up. We should speak with the others tomorrow, and I for one have to admit that I would rather walk up to the Black Gate unarmed and with a sign around my neck saying 'I have a death wish, please shoot me!' than stay here one more … Do you smell that?"

Aragorn blinked and turned his head slightly, but shook his head a moment later.  
"No. What?"

"Smoke," the Silvan elf answered, a frown beginning to form on his fair face. "There is smoke in the air."

"Of course there is," Aragorn said patiently. "You are sitting next to a fire, _mellon nín_."

"It's not that," Legolas shook his head unwillingly. "I have smelt it for some time now and thought that it was only the fire, but the smell is getting stronger. There is something on fire, here, in this house."

"Are you sure?" Aragorn asked, getting to his feet in alarm. Legolas merely looked at him without saying anything, and the man quickly shook his head. "Ignore that question. Of course you are sure."

He grasped his sword that was leaning against the wall next to his bed and turned around to the door. Now he, too, was beginning to smell the thick, acrid smell of smoke that drifted into their room through the cracks between the door and the doorframe, and a small knot of dread was beginning to form in the pit of his stomach.

"Let's find Elrohir and Isál and get out of here," he told his elven friend who had shouldered his bow and quiver by now. "In the next ten seconds, if somehow possible. I do _not _like fire."

"A very good idea, my friend," Legolas agreed with him, taking a step forward and pulling open the old, creaking wooden door. "In fact, it's the best idea you've had for quite…"

The fair haired elf's words trailed off, and when Aragorn looked up from where he had been fastening his sword belt around his waist, he found that the words that were on the tip of his tongue faded from his mind into nothing, too. He had been expecting to see many things, including a fire-drake and a bunch of giant, evil fireflies, but _this _was not one of them.

Next to him, Legolas was entertaining much the same thoughts, even though a stab of anger mixed with the stunned confusion inside his heart. He had never trusted the men of this town, and it seemed his mistrust had been justified! That would, after all, explain why a group of them was standing in front of their door, looking slightly surprised themselves that the door had been opened so suddenly. The surprise on the men's faces faded quickly, however, and was replaced by cold-blooded determination, an emotion that matched the sinister-looking crossbows in their hands just perfectly.

Crossbows, the elf noticed detachedly, that were aimed directly at the two of them.

Aragorn's eyes grew large for a moment, before a grim expression settled over his face and he turned slightly to look at his elven friend, both eyebrows raised in either annoyance or wry amusement.  
"Does this surprise us?"

Legolas didn't move for a second, his eyes not leaving the very determined-looking men standing in front of him, but then he shrugged and slowly shook his head.

"Not really."

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TBC...

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_muindor nín - my brother (as opposed to 'gwador')  
Longûr - 'Heavy-heart'  
ada - father (daddy)  
pen-neth - young one  
mellon nín - my friend  
edain - humans, men_

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Yes, yes, yes, I AM a tiny little bit sorry about the cliffy. I just couldn't help myself. •snickers• I am afraid there are a few more cliffies coming up now - I really, really missed them. They're so much fun! Okay, be that as it may, I once again apologise for not posting for the next few weeks. College can be bloody annoying sometimes! •shakes head• Reviews would most certainly cheer me up quite a lot. Really! So: Reviews? Yes please! •g•

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****Additional A/N:**

**Dae** - •g• Ah yes. "Poor Erestor". That actually describes it rather well, I think! •g• Oh, and I'm sure that elfling deserved what it got. Most children do. •evil grin• I am sorry about chapter 20 being so late - I really tried to avoid it, but my characters simply wouldn't shut up. •sighs• They never do... And how did you know chapter 19 would end in a cliff hanger? You must be psychic or something... •g• Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**KLMeri** - Of course it was evil to have his fingers broken. Honestly, what were you expecting? I AM evil - most of the time, that is. •g• LOL, I'm just imagining Erestor sneaking out of bed to catch up on his paperwork! That really sounds like something he would do... •g• And come on, everybody needs a little romance now and then! Even evil villainous ladies and their insane, warped captains. Hmm, now that I think about it though, I don't want to know either. You're right. •g•  
**HarryEstel** - Yup, Celylith's here. He's not too happy about that at the moment, just as he's not too happy about his stupid prince's stupid actions. His job really isn't an easy one. •pats his head in sympathy• I'm glad you still like it, and thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**Bookworm85** - I'm glad I could be of service. It's good to hear that this weird little story actually cheers you up - then again, what does that say about you? •g• Freud would most likely have a field day with you... •g• No, j/k, you're perfectly normal, just like the rest of us. •g• Celylith is not very happy at the moment, no, you're completely right. Then again, no one else is, so it's only fair, I guess. •g•  
**Barbara Kennedy** - Hmm, you're right! I have to tell my alter ego to see it that way for once. Whether or not she will actually listen to me is an entirely different thing, though... •g• And I really have to think about that black-squirrel-thing. Imagine all the possibilities... •smiles dreamily• Then again, maybe not. I doubt Elrond or Thranduil would be too happy about black squirrels in their houses... •g• Spoilsports.  
**TrustingFriendship** - Well, considering Erestor's age, they really are children, aren't they? Then agian, I really think that continually telling them that is not really going to help... •shakes head• Stupid elf. •g• I'm glad you liked Legolas' little "trick", btw. He's a prince after all; he should know how to pull off stuff like that. •g•  
**Kenzimone** - Finally! Someone who admits to liking elf torture! •g• Well, my alter ego does, too, but she doesn't really count. She IS me, after all - at least partly. •shrugs• I don't even try to understand it. •g• Sorry, but this chapter does not include any more councillor torture. I already had way too many things to cram into this chapter, and Erestor really deserved a break. And besides, I do not like to write elf lord torture. I have no idea why; I just don't´. •shrugs• And you really like Gasur? Well, that's ... nice to hear. Slightly disconcerting, too, but still nice. •g•  
**AngelMouse5** - Hey! Great to "see" you again! •huggles• I missed you! Don't worry about reviewing. I know very well how very annoying RL can be from time to time. •g• It's great to hear that you like this weird story of mine. Thank you very much for your kind words - and the rest of the review, of course! •g•  
**Lynn-G** - Yeah, Celylith is a little bit confused at the moment. There are a few other people who are just as confused, though, so I guess it's not all that surprising. •g• Thank you very much for all your reviews - I really love them!  
**Celebdil-Galad** - Yes, you made it first. Well done. •g• Oh ... EMG really sounds nasty! Not to mention very, very painful. I am sorry to hear that you had to do something like that. Yet another reason to hate hospitals! •g• LOL, yes, Erestor's handwriting. I guess that isn't on top of his list of priorities at the moment. •g• So you like Celylith, huh? He has a certain ... charm, I'll admit that. Rather insane, too, but still. •g• And I will most certainly not allow Celylith to meet any of your OCs! Just imagine what they would do! •shudders• Oh, and don't worry about enjoying to kill OCs. It's natural - I think. •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - •beams• Thank you very much! Of course I am a very, very nice person! And I always keep my bargains, you know! Well, maybe not ALWAYS, but most of the time. Okay. Sometimes. It's been known to happen. •g• LOL, as I said in the A/N, I will NOT put in any details of their relationship. Just a few looks and stuff like that, nothing more. I couldn't write that. •shudders• I apologise for creating such an Evil Image. I didn't mean to, even though it's quite an interesting - not to mention amusing - side effect. •g• I hope your exams went well, then! I can HARDLY wait for mine! •growls•  
**Beling** - •g• "Lord Elrond in warrior mode", indeed! I thought he deserved it. I mean, he IS a warrior after all, or at least he was. Being a healer is fun, surely, but being a warrior can be a lot of fun, too! He won't really lead an elven •army• into battle, but... •shrugs• Ah well, it's close enough. •g• Well, actually, I would still like to kill Elvynd, •because• it would be so evil and all that. It would be unexpected. •g• I don't know if I will be able to include those particular scenes, but I will do my best. Just remind me from time to time, and I'll see what I can do. •g•  
**Tineryn** - LOL, yes, now everyone hastens to the rescue". That's quite correct. Even though all of us know that they'll be too late... •sighs• Ah well, let them try. •g• Here's the update, even though it's the last for a while. I'm really, really sorry about that. I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!  
**Maranwe1** - •g• Thanks a lot for going to all that trouble. I'll fix it as soon as I can. I still can't believe I actually used the word "arout"! •shakes head• I really don't understand myself from time to time. •g• LOL, yes, Aberon is the good city. Donrag is Acalith's city. You got it; well done! Oh, and please don't ask me about what sparked certain remarks. I ask myself the same quite often, to be honest. I think, however, that the the little instruction about Greeks was sparked by my remarks about "Alexander" a few chapters back. I'm not sure, though. •g• I can't tell you to which house that coat of arms belonged to. That would be telling, wouldn't it? •g• LOL, you're right, you know. It would be quite "interesting" if the two of them were to have perfectly normal, nice, well-behaved children. And no, my topics aren't all that interesting. "The Conquest of Britain" (that's not too bad, though) and "Tetrarchic palaces". •shudders• Good luck with your story, btw!  
**Cosmic Castaway** - •winces• I know you don't want to wait. I don't want to write these papers either, but my professors insist. I don't know why either. •g• You really aren't missing anything if you don't watch "Alexander", but don't get me started on "Troy". I would still like to strangle that insane director! What in the name of •Zeus• himself was he thinking? Okay. I'm calm. Calm... •g• And you wouldn't get the chance to cause me any headaches if you got into my head, trust me. You would go insane within minutes. Trust me on this. •g• It's great to hear that you still like it; thanks a lot for all your long reviews!  
**Elvendancer** - Hmm, I might be able to hide from you guys, but I will most certainly have trouble hiding from my alter ego. She's part of me, after all, at least I think so. •g• LOL, you're right, there are lots of people and/or creatures who aren't too happy with Acalith at the moment. I have no idea why, really. •g• I am very proud of you, btw. It's not very nice to harm your sister, so it's good you didn't. Congrats. •g•  
**Arrina** - Yes, that's a lot of questions. I could answer them, of course, but that would spoil the whole thing, wouldn't it? •evil grin• Yes, I think it most certainly would. Oh, and don't worry about not having figured out everything that is going on here. To be honest, I am not really sure myself at this point. •g• No one is at the moment, I think, which just makes the whole thing a lot more interesting. •g•  
**Viresse** - Thank you! I'm always trying not to make the twins appear too silly or something like that - lots of stories do, I think. They're over 2500 years old, after all, and wouldn't act like teenagers, would they? Well, at least not all the time. •g• There is no Elladan in this chapter, but I will try to put him into the next chapter, or into chapter 21. I promise. •g•  
**Chip** - Uhm, yes, that had to hurt. My stories tend to be slightly painful; I am evil, you know. •g• Thanks a lot for your review!  
**Maerz** - •hat unschoene Vorstellung von menschenverschlingender Story• Uhm, ich hoffe doch, dass dich die Geschichte nicht verschlingt! Das waere wirklich beunruhigend... •g• Und ich kenne das Problem! Es passiert mir oefters, dass ich im Bus oder der S-Bahn etwas lustiges lese - oder mich auch nur an etwas lustiges erinnere - und dann befremdete Blicke bekomme. •g• Ich komme also in dein Zitatenbuch, hm? Danke, das ist doch wirklich nett! Aha, also suedlich von Leipzig. Ich hab's mir mittlerweile auch auf der Karte angeguckt - naeher dran an Berlin ging's wohl nicht, oder? •grummel• Besuchen wuerd' ich dich gerne, wage es aber zu bezweifeln, dass ich Zeit habe. Ich muss da auf so 'ne Art Seminarwochenende, Juchu. •g• Rashwe geht's uebrigens gut. Glaube ich jedenfalls, ich werde sicher nicht gehen und ihn besuchen! Der ist BOESE! •g•  
**Ventinari** - Yup, Celylith doesn't really know what he's just got himself into. Poor boy. •evil grin• You have some really interesting ideas, btw. I hadn't really contemplated letting Erestor sink into despair or anything of the like, but it sounds really ... interesting. That's the word, interesting, not fun or anything of the like. •g• I'll have to think about it; I don't really know if I could write him like that. I still don't really understand him, if that makes any sense at all. •grimaces• It probably doesn't. Don't ever apologise for having such great ideas! Thank you very much for your wonderful review!  
**Ithiliel Silverquill** - Well, thanks, I guess. Getting shot is supposed to hurt. •g• Oh, and I haven't done anything to Erestor. It's Gasur's fault, not mine. I didn't even touch him! •g• And you're perfectly right, of course. Erestor isn't dead; he's only "horrifically wounded and half-dead". I really don't know what his problem is. •g• I am glad you liked that little sentence, even though I am saddened that you still haven't forgiven me for killing Cuilthen. It was necessary, I tell you! •g• Oh ... •tries to ignore cloud of Impending Doom• ... that cloud. Just ignore it, it's here all the time. •g• Oh, and when IS your birthday? If it's after the sixteenth or seventeeth, I might be able to send you a little preview as a present. I am not promising anything, of course! •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - Lots of people think fanfiction is weird. I don't know why either. •g• Great you like Celylith so much. He's very nice, actually, even though he's slightly insane. •watches silver haired elf pet a giant spider• Make that VERY insane. I'm sure he would love to have a pet warg, though. •g• And I wouldn't let Elrohir hear you say something like that. He does NOT like to be compared to hobbits. •g• I hope your friend did not strangle you after all!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - In my experience, computers do not like anyone. Least of all people who depend on them in any way. •glares at own computer• Are you sure you haven't caught some sort of virus, or a Trojan or something like that? My computer was acting just like that some time ago, and when I ran an anti-virus scan, it found over 200 infected files. •shudders• That was NOT funny at all. LOL, and yes, Imladris is going to war - sort of. •g• Elrond IS leading them, though. He deserves to have some fun, too. •g• I hope your computer is behaving more sensibly now. They really can be annoying sometimes, can't they? •g•  
**Marbienl** - Yup, exam time again. It's so much fun every year... •grumbles• I have to admit that I have never actually broken anything. I cracked a finger once, but that's about it, I'm afraid. I'm sure it's very painful, though. •g• Pawns are most likely really underrated, even though most certainly not when I'm playing chess. I'm completely useless. •g• And I haven't watched Star Trek lately, even though I know most of the series and/or movies. "First Contact" was always one of my favourites, though, funny, isn't it? •g• Well, then just don't learn German at all. It's an ugly language, and if it works for your parents, it should work for you, too. •g• I'll take a look at that link a bit later, it really sounds like a lot of fun! The next time I'm in Holland, I might visit it! •g•  
**Viggomaniac** - You? Shallow? I would never thought of something like that! •g• And what are you saying, Aragorn isn't real? He's sitting right next to me, looking increasingly scared! Believe me, he's quite real. •g• Oh, and thank you for saying that, but I really don't like to write torture either. The "real" torture scenes take me days, and I hate every second of them. I'm rather strange, I know. •g• Uhm, and Donrag isn't a who. It's Acalith's town. I should have mentioned the name more frequently, I guess, sorry. And no, of course you don't crave IT. Neither do I. Nobody here craves IT. •g•  
**Golden Elf - **•g• So Elvynd's a treasure, hm? That's a rather nice thing to say; I'll let him know. "Inventive tormentor" is not quite as nice, but true as well. •g• Don't worry about Erestor's hand, btw. He'll be fine, eventually. He's a canon character and I can therefore not kill and/or permanently maim him. Bugger. •g• Glorfindel might be ripping Gasur to shreds in the end, even though I am not completely sure about it. There are lots of people who want to kill him, and they're getting more numerous by the second. Funny, eh? •g•  
**Crippled Raven** - Oh, go ahead and huggle Erestor. He could use some TLC, that much is certain... •g• You know, the children I imagined were just like that. They would be most likely real monsters... •g• Hmm, yes, I like pink. I mean, I don't like it - I don't - and I would never wear it - never- but I like it for scenes like this one. You're right though, I've used it a little too often. Thanks for pointing that out. And I guess you can just pity 3/4 of all the characters. Oh, what the heck, make that 4/5. At least. •g• LOL, so you are the person with the "most bizarrely sane outlook on life and literature"? That's indeed a very nice title, congrats! •g• Thanks for your kind words, and I have to say that "maths statistics coursework" sounds horribly. I always hated Maths, with a passion. •g• Since I am NO genius, I have no idea how well I'll do. Most of it is only Archaeology anyway, and that's not as important as History. Always good to know, eh? •sighs•  
**Elitenschwein** - •g• Jetzt haben wir also 'ne neue Tradition angefangen, huh? Die beruehmt-beruechtigte "Mittwoch-Abend-Review"... •g• Das mit dem Lernen versteh' ich vollkommen. Ich habe in zwei Wochen drei Klausuren und dann noch zwei HA, die ich eigentlich demnaechst mal abgeben muesste... •unschuldig pfeif• Und, was steht bei dir an? Auch Klausuren, nehm' ich an - ist ja bei virtuell allen Faechern so... •g• Schoen, dass dir Celyliths Auftauchen solche Freude macht. Er ist da wohl gerade nicht so begeistert, aber was wissen Waldelben schon... •g• Oh, und ich glaube, es ist DIE Review, aber da es das Wort wohl offiziell gar nicht gibt, kannst du machen, was du willst. •g• Danke fuer all deine langen Reviews - ich freu' mich schon immer auf Mittwoch abends!

**Thank you very much for all your reviews! They're very, very, very, VERY much appreciated! •huggles reviewers•**


	20. …This Way Comes

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Uhm. Yes. Well. Hi. •waves cheerfully• I wanted to let one of my characters tell you all this, but then I thought about what they would probably REALLY tell you instead of my pathetic excuses and quickly decided against it. You already hate me enough as it is, I guess. •weak smile•  
Okay, let's get this over with. I am very, VERY sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. I did not do it on purpose, I swear. I really appreciate all your patience and willingness to put up with my weird posting schedule - yeah, I know, what posting schedule?

There are several reasons for all this, one of them being that, even though the exams are over (thankfully!), I have to prepare a little lecture for a kind of seminar which will be vitally important for my future. I kid you not. It's taking place in exactly eight days, and I am already a nervous wreck. To be honest, I have been for weeks now. I'm pathetic, don't tell me.  
Oh, and there is also the little fact that I got accepted for the student exchange program. I'll be spending two semesters in Madrid, which is really wonderful, if one ignores the fact that I do not speak a word of Spanish. I haven't learnt it in school, and have only started a course at university a few months ago. Right now all I can say are things like "I am an olive", which is a nice enough sentence, surely, even if slightly useless. •g•

Anyway, I'm back. I promise to do my utmost best to keep to my original posting schedule (yes, I DO have one), meaning once a week, which would be every Friday at the moment. I'll be gone on this seminar-thingy (•shivers•) next weekend, but I think I'll be able to update nonetheless. Don't expect any coherent sentences out of me, though. •g•

All right, enough of this, here is chapter 20, finally. I have to warn you, though: It's not quite what I wanted it to be. Jack is very displeased with me at the moment ("Where is the real torture, you sissy?"), but I really couldn't make them shut up. I almost never can, now that I think about it. Still, Aragorn and Legolas are in rather deep trouble and just don't know when to shut up (I know, what else is new?), Elrohir is ... well, let's just say rather surprised, not to mention displeased, and Gasur is ... Gasur, I guess.

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 20

Aragorn slowly moved backwards, his eyes not leaving the men in front of him. He, too, was not really surprised that a group of armed men was standing on the threshold of his room, even though he had to admit that it was slightly annoying. Could he not go anywhere without being captured, detained or inconvenienced in any way?

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that Legolas was mirroring his movements, something that reassured him quite a bit. At the moment, he found it slightly hard to concentrate; even though he was not overly surprised by all this, he was still confused. When they had parted from Elrohir and Isál this evening, all he had been worrying about had been how he should get any sleep with Legolas in such an high-strung state, and now this!

The young man took another few steps backwards, following the men's unvoiced command. He was no mind-reader and not really in the mood to comply with these people's wishes in any way, but even he recognised the necessity of doing what the men wanted, at least in this case. Eight crossbows that were trained right at one's midsection tended to do wonders for one's willingness to co-operate.

A few more steps and the back of his knees touched a wooden construction which he identified as one of the beds a moment later. Legolas stopped next to him, his hands raised slightly in a non-threatening position that fooled Aragorn not even for a second. He knew the fair haired elf, and had seen this particular expression on his friend's face before. If Legolas got even the slightest chance, he would seize it without hesitation.

One of the humans, a tall, muscular man with a swarthy face whom Aragorn could have sworn he had seen before motioned the rest of the men to step inside the room. As soon as the men were inside, he closed the door with almost exaggerated gentleness, before he turned back around, a smug and at the same time slightly worried sparkle in his eyes. He did not say anything, however, and so the two groups only stared at each other for long moments.

Aragorn had to force himself to remain as calm as he could while surprise and confusion were replaced by dread and fear. He had no idea who these people were, what they were doing here and what they wanted from them, but he had the very distinct feeling that he didn't want to know. Contrary to what the twins and about ninety percent of Rivendell's population thought, he _had _learnt something over the past few years.

Next to him, Legolas was becoming increasingly irritated. He did not like being waylaid by perfect strangers in houses that were supposedly safe, and even less when the next available weapon was slung over his back. He knew that Aragorn was not helpless – far from it, actually – but that did not change the fact that he was not an elf and didn't possess elven reflexes. If he had been alone, he might have chanced making a move, and be it only to escape through the window, but with Aragorn standing next to him, he would never risk it.

The acrid smell of smoke became stronger and more tangible, and Legolas decided that, even though standing here and staring at the humans was faintly amusing, it was nothing but a waste of time. If they kept this up for much longer, they would all turn into tiny, crispy pieces of unidentifiable matter within a couple of minutes.

"Can we help you?" he finally asked, arching an eyebrow in obvious annoyance.

"If you are looking for the weapons dealer, you got the wrong house," Aragorn chimed in, smiling friendly at the eight men in front of him. "His shop is located further down the street; no more than fifty or sixty yards, I believe. It's a common mistake, or so I've been told."

"Yes, you really should have those … things … taken care of," Legolas agreed, wrinkling his nose slightly as if the mere sight of the crossbows was an insult to his senses. "They're looking a little worse for wear, if you ask me."

"Funny," the tall man commented curtly, his weapon still pointing unwaveringly at the two beings in front of him. "Very funny. You should charge people for this."

"Oh, we intend to," Aragorn nodded, still smiling. "It's a coin of copper apiece, but if you leave now, we might overlook it."

"There is a borderline between being funny and being obnoxious, ranger," the man said, sounding even more curtly and more annoyed. "You are about to cross it."

"Wrong, human," Legolas said, all traces of good humour gone from his face from one moment to the next. "It has already been crossed, namely in the moment you appeared in front of our room – armed! We are guests of the town council, and guests of Master Hurag, the owner of this house! What gives any of you the right to barge in here and threaten us like this?"

None of the humans looked overly impressed, and quite a few of them began to smile broadly. Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a quick, rather unsurprised look. This was not good.

"Ah," the leader of the men drawled, taking a nonchalant step forwards, "Let's just say that our master is a highly … multifarious man. He has reconsidered his position, so to speak."

It took Aragorn only half a second to realise what this man was talking about, and his eyes narrowed into thin slits. The fact that he wasn't even surprised by the man's words was perhaps the worst thing about it, and the brightest reflection of his own failure.

"The word you are looking for is 'cowardly', I believe," he said quietly, in a tone of voice that would have impressed even one of the Nine. "Is your Master too afraid to even face us after such a betrayal? Is he too afraid to come here and tell us himself what he has done, tell us himself that he has lured us here under false pretences and has broken every law of hospitality his forefathers held sacred?"

"Don't be ridiculous, ranger," the other man shook his head. "Master Hurag is spending the night somewhere else. Somewhere where there are lots and lots of witnesses."

He would have said more and was apparently just getting ready for launching a lengthy speech, but one of his men took a step forward and gestured at the door behind them, or rather the tendrils of smoke that were beginning to drift into the room. Reluctantly, he turned back to the two beings that were giving him equally dark looks, a small, insincere smile on his lips.  
"Enough of this. If you don't move and remain silent, all this will be over in a moment." He turned to two of his men, ordering them to step forward. "Bind them."

"No."

The word was spoken softly, in an almost friendly tone of voice, but there was steely determination beneath it, almost tangible in the tense air. Legolas' eyes matched his voice; they could have been mirror imagines of clear blue pools of frozen water. The fair haired elf took half a step forwards, unconsciously trying to position himself between his human friend and the source of danger.

The tall man rolled his eyes, urgency joining the annoyance on his swarthy face. He only raised a hand, and a second later the eight crossbows swung around until all of them were pointing at the dark haired ranger. Aragorn, who had been about to mirror his friend's movements, froze immediately in mid-motion, looking remarkably like a rabbit that had been surprised by its hunters.

"You were saying?" the tall leader asked, grinning smugly at Legolas who looked about ready to try and test the theory that it was possible to rip out a human's heart with your bare hands if you only applied enough pressure. "Now, if you've finished being unreasonable, come here like a good little elf and keep still. I've heard that your kind is fast, so you might be able to do something before we could react, but your friend here … he is not that fast. No matter what happens, you will both die, and that would really be a shame, now wouldn't it?"

"Are you willing to bet your life on that?" Legolas asked softly with a smile that would have caused even Glorfindel to nod his head in approval. "I promise you that I will kill you before that happens, and quite a few of your men, too."

"Your kind really _is _depressing," the man smiled back, apparently torn between feeling infuriated and downright amused. "What will it avail you to kill me when you and your friend die, too?" His smile widened. "I will tell you what: Nothing. You know that; I know that. And now step forward, or I will order my men to shoot the ranger. I have to bring you two out of this house; I do _not _have to bring you out of it unharmed or in one piece."

"How convenient," Aragorn commented quietly, his voice not much more than a low growl.

"Indeed it is," the leader grinned openly before his face turned serious again. "Master Elf. Step forward. _Now_."

The expression on the elf's face became even darker, but after exchanging a quick look with the equally dark-faced ranger, he finally stepped forward, probably more because of the smell of burning wood that was wafting into the room than because of the threats the man had uttered. While he knew that they had at least a small chance of escaping their current situation – a very small chance, if he was perfectly honest – it would probably take more time than they had, judging by the increasingly thick smoke. And besides, the chances of Aragorn or him being hit by at least one crossbow bolt were at least as big as their chances of success, and that was not acceptable, at least not until things got a whole lot worse.

That was most probably one of the most idiotic things he had thought in a long time, Legolas decided ironically while he tried to ignore the man who had handed his crossbow to one of his companions and had produced a length of rope – he was getting far too good at ignoring people who were tying his hands behind his back. He bit back a mixture of an annoyed growl and a small hiss as the man tightened the knots, causing the rope to bite into the freshly healed skin. He was quickly beginning to revise his opinion. It _was _the single most idiotic thing he had thought in a long time; probably in the last millennium or so.

The man binding his hands tugged sharply at the knots, making sure they would hold and causing Legolas to narrow his eyes both in annoyance and discomfort. While he was being pushed over to the one side of the room he made a mental note to somehow find out this man's identity and teach him a thing or two about how it felt like to have the circulation in your hands cut off from one moment to the next. He very much doubted that the human would enjoy it in any way.

A few moments later Aragorn had been bound in a similar way and had, judging by his expression, been entertaining similar thoughts while forcing himself to keep still and not do anything that could be termed "resisting". The ranger knew perfectly well that their chances of escape were diminishing astronomically right now, but he simply could not risk doing anything while these men were pointing a bunch of loaded crossbows at his friend. He growled inwardly. These people knew exactly how they could ensure their co-operation, which meant that they were either very clever or very lucky.

As soon as the two beings were securely bound, the tall leader stepped up to them, reached out with a hand and actually patted Legolas' cheek. It was only to be accredited to the blond elf's astonishment that he remained completely motionless and did nothing. Had this human really just _patted _his _cheek_?

"There," the man said softly, oblivious to his prisoner's thoughts, "that wasn't so bad, was it? Now listen closely, you two. We're going to leave in a second. If you give us any trouble, try to call out to anyone or fail to disobey our orders, you'll regret it. After all, I do not have to bring you…"

"…out of this house unharmed or in one piece. Yes. We _are _capable of understanding simple sentences."

Aragorn's voice was dark and full of barely controlled anger, and Legolas looked at his friend sharply, not knowing whether the man wanted to get himself killed or had simply reached the ends of his patience. He had just opened his mouth to tell the young ranger in no unclear terms that he should be quiet, for Eru's sake, when one of the men apparently decided that enough was enough. Legolas could only watch with mounting fury in his heart how the human drew back and rammed his elbow into Aragorn's side.

The man had either been lucky or had a lot of experience mistreating other people, for the young ranger almost immediately doubled over, the air rushing out of his lungs with an audible sound. The humans' leader, all former humour gone from his face, nodded at the two men behind the ranger, and a moment later Aragorn was jerked back upright. The dark haired ranger's mouth was a thin line, but no pain or fear could be seen in his eyes that seemed to be filled with nothing but anger and contempt.

"Never forget that line I mentioned, ranger," the leader said coldly, appearing rather unimpressed by the dark expression on his captive's face. "One more witty reply from you and it'll be the elf who'll have to answer for it, not you. Do we understand each other?"

Aragorn took a deep breath, both to gather enough air to speak and in order not to lose control over his temper.  
"Yes," he finally ground out. "We do."

"Wonderful," the other man declared, a fake smile on his lips. "Now be silent and move. Both of you."

There really wasn't much one of them could say to that, and so all Legolas and Aragorn could do was glare at their captors while they were taken firmly by the arms and half pushed, half dragged out of the room. Within a few seconds the eight men and their captives had left the cold room and had stepped out into the corridor, which was quite a bit warmer. Quite a bit smokier, too, Legolas noticed with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

"Smokier" might have been a bit of an understatement, actually, the wood-elf realised as soon as he was pushed over the threshold of their room, anxiety swirling through his mind and body and blotting out the furious outrage in his heart. Even for an elf it was almost impossible to see anything farther away than maybe two or three feet, and breathing became a challenge from one moment to the next.

"What in the name of all the Valar do you think you're doing?" he hissed, barely suppressing a cough when he inhaled thick, smoke-filled air. The more reasonable part of his brain told him that he was doing the exact same thing for which he would nearly have berated Aragorn, but Legolas ignored it with practiced ease. "Do you want this house to come down on your own heads?"

"Not really, no," the leader of the men shook his head as he pulled a cloth of unidentifiable colour over his mouth and nose, not bothering to order his men to provide his captives with the same comfort. "Actually, it's a diversion, but still, you do have a point." He turned to his men, straining to make himself understood over the crackling noise that filled the air and which could only be the sounds of a fire that wasn't too far away. "We take the servants' stairs – this way we attract less attention. Someone's bound to notice something soon. Where are the lookouts?"

The group of men around them shifted slightly, stepping to the sides to let two others pass, and Aragorn had to fight a sense of distinct disbelief along with the urge to bolt and do his best to flee, the heat and smoke causing his senses to go into overdrive. Was this man setting houses on fire everyday so that he could remain this dispassionate in face of the possibility of burning to death in the next few minutes?

One of the two men who had just appeared and looked vaguely as if they had fallen headfirst into a vat of soot jerked the cloth away from his mouth with an impatient motion that could have even been called frantic. He was obviously only one step away from taking his superior by the arm and dragging him out of this house – something that Legolas could understand only too well.

"We need to leave, sir, _now_. The fire is spreading a lot faster than we thought. We don't have the time to go looking for the other elves; we need to get out of here while we still can."

"Unacceptable," the tall man shook his head, coughing even despite the scarf covering his nose and mouth. "We were told to get all four of them, and that is what we'll do."

"You don't understand, sir," the other man shook his head, his companion nodding his assent next to him. "It's impossible to use the main stairs; the fire has already reached them! If we try to go that way, we will die!"

The men's leader cast a quick look over his shoulder, into the direction of the main staircase, and realised to his immense dissatisfaction that the other man was right. The dancing shadows that were cast onto the dark walls, the smoke and the bright light of the crackling flames that seemed to intensify with every passing second were signs that even the most naïve and ignorant man would not be able to mistake. The oppressive, stifling heat that he felt as he took even only a few steps into the direction of the main staircase was the last thing he needed to come to the conclusion that his lookouts were indeed correct.

"All right," he nodded curtly and turned back around, coughing again. "This way. Hurry."

This was in fact the first thing Aragorn agreed on with these people – burning alive because of your own gullibility was not his idea of an honourable death, thank you very much. They hadn't taken more than perhaps half a dozen steps to the right when, even over the crackling, ever growing sound of the flames, a voice could be heard from the direction of the main staircase, sounding somewhere between panicked and mildly incredulous, as if its owner couldn't quite believe that this was indeed real.

"Estel! Legolas! Elbereth, please no! Estel! Answer me!"

"Oh, wonderful. The elves, just what we needed," the tall leader muttered under his breath as he turned to one of his lookouts, gesturing his men to continue down the corridor. "Can they get up here?"

"No," the other man shook his head. "No one and nothing can, sir. The stairs will collapse."

The leader answered something, his swarthy face eerily lit by the shadows and half obscured by the thick smoke, but Aragorn wasn't listening, completely distracted by his elven brother's voice. He had not even consciously decided to use this opportunity to let Elrohir know that, this time, they could indeed use his help, but a second later he had opened his mouth, more than willing to defy these men's orders and call out to his brother.

It would have worked quite well, actually, even despite the trouble he was having drawing breath, but a heartbeat before he could let anyone downstairs know that they were alive, in the process of being kidnapped and not yet suffocated or burnt to death, a hand tangled in his hair and violently slammed his head against the wall. Aragorn had just enough time for the curious observation that even this bit of the wooden panelling felt hot against the skin of his face before the pain registered in his brain, washing over him like a wave of pure heat. There was some noise in the background, something that sounded vaguely like someone calling his name before the sound was stopped abruptly, but he was by no means sure about it, too concentrated was he on not passing out on the spot.

What exactly happened between the moment his head connected with the corridor's wall and the moment the fog that had been clouding his thoughts lifted, he could truly not say. He thought he had been dragged down countless stairs, heat and smoke seemingly intensifying with every shallow breath he took, but the pain in his head and the sickening dizziness that had materialised inside of him were at the forefront of his mind.

He finally revived a little bit when clear, frigid air touched his face, and he had just succeeded in clearing his head sufficiently to actually follow a train of thought longer than half a second when yet another hand took hold of his hair and pulled his head up. Making a mental note to ask Legolas or one of his brothers to sheer off all of it as soon as they got out of this mess, he forced his tightly closed eyes to open so that he could look the man in the eye whose fingers were currently wrapped around a long strand of his hair.

Unsurprisingly, it was the tall, swarthy-faced leader of the men, and he didn't look amused anymore. In fact, he looked rather angry, an impression that was only reinforced by the ash and soot that covered his face. Ignoring the other human, Aragorn let his eyes wander to the left, and decided a split moment later that he couldn't remember ever seeing a house that had looked quite this impressive while burning to the ground. It appeared that these people didn't do anything half-way.

The thought was quickly driven from his mind both by the sharp tug the other man gave his hair in order to attract his attention or simply make his life miserable and something that could only be called panic. What if Elrohir and Isál hadn't got out in time? What if they had actually tried to climb the stairs and they had collapsed under them like the men had said?

"That," the tall man all but growled, interrupting Aragorn's frantic thoughts, "was stupid, ranger. What part of 'Don't try to call out to someone' did you not understand?"

For a moment, Aragorn seriously contemplated saying something, but he quickly decided against it when Legolas was pulled forward, looking about as soot-covered as he himself felt. There was a fine cover of ash dusting his hair, and for an irrational second Aragorn was almost reminded of his adopted grandfather or another of the often silver haired Lothlórien elves. The wood-elf looked torn between anger and annoyance, but there was a large, already darkening mark on one of his cheeks that looked, even from this distance, more than a little painful. It appeared that he had not been mistaken then; the men had most likely hit his friend in order to silence him, too.

The other man had noticed the elf's involuntary appearance as well, and, displaying reflexes that once and for all confirmed that he was indeed a soldier, let go of Aragorn's hair and moved forwards, drawing a knife and placing it at the fair haired being's throat faster than most mortals would have been able to follow. The young ranger tried to shake off the men who had still a firm hold of his upper arms, but he didn't stand a chance, bound and still dizzy and light-headed as he was. All he could do was watch while the humans' leader slowly and ruthlessly began to press the blade down, cutting into the soft skin under the elf's chin.

"I should cut his throat, right here, right now," the dark haired man told Aragorn, staring into the blond elf's eyes without showing the slightest reaction to the dark, all-consuming fury he saw there. He pressed the knife down harder, grinning at the fair haired elf before he turned around to give the younger man a hard look. "And I would do it, too, if we had the time. We do not, however. I will only say this once, ranger, so you should listen to me carefully and remember my words. If you put one more toe out of line – only _one_! – he," he nodded at one of the guards that were keeping the elven prisoner in place, "will kill the elf. I am not a man to break my word, boy, so I would advise you to _do as you're told_, understood?"

Aragorn watched how the man applied even more pressure to emphasise his point, and the bright red blood that flowed copiously from the swiftly deepening cut at his friend's throat was all he needed to realise that they were trapped, completely and utterly so. He hadn't been certain before, had been fooled by the men's comparatively amateurish manner, but now he knew that at least this man intended to do exactly what he had threatened. If he gave him any reason at all, he would order Legolas to be killed, or would cut the elf's throat himself. Not because he wanted to or enjoyed such things, no, but because he would think it prudent or necessary. He would give them no more warnings, and no second chances.

Aragorn merely inclined his head as much as he could without the bloody thing falling off and rolling away, and after several long moments that felt like an eternity to the young ranger the other man finally removed the dagger from Legolas' throat, apparently unperturbed by the blood that flowed freely from the injury. He didn't even give one of them a second glance before he turned and gave his men a signal, and half a moment later the elf and the ranger were pushed forward, across the small courtyard and into the direction of the wooden door that led onto a street that ran parallel to the town wall.

The bright light of the burning house faded as soon as they stepped onto the dark alley, and so did the smoke and the sounds and yells that had been audible for quite some time now. Somebody was apparently trying to put out the fire, even though they could have spared themselves the trouble. It was clear that it was impossible to save the building, to that these people had seen. Aragorn wasn't really sure what they had used to make the house catch fire so quickly – probably some king of tar or oil, he imagined – but it had been highly effective. Even to someone who was standing here in the narrow alley it was clear that the fire would not be put out but would rather have to exhaust itself, something that would most likely take a few hours.

It took all the young man's already very strained self-control to allow himself to be pushed forward, down the alleyway and further away from the burning house. Only the memory of the leader's knife biting into Legolas' neck made him swallow the angry words and questions that were on the tip of his tongue, but at least the questions were answered bit by bit the further they walked.

Whoever these men were, they were not stupid. It appeared that this particular street was short and a dead end, and the only access way was being guarded by two more men. While Aragorn was still processing this information – did all this mean that Aberon's council was involved, too? – his next pressing question was answered, namely what in the name of Manwë Súlimo the men were planning to do with them. Near the end of the alley was a small, almost invisible gate in the thick wall to their right, a door that was probably a small town gate that was not used for daily traffic. In a split second, Aragorn realised why Hurag had invited them to stay in this house, and he asked himself how many times the grey haired councilman had already used this gateway to smuggle things – or people – in and out of Aberon.

He had just enough time to notice the many thick bolts and locks that usually secured this entranceway, all of which were open at the moment, before his guards pushed him none-too-gently forward, through the opening and out of the town. The question of how many people Hurag had bribed and/or threatened to make sure that the guards and patrols would look the other way and be very distracted by the fire this evening had not even fully constituted in his mind when he raised his head and, in the dim light a single torch cast, saw that they were not alone.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes slightly, an action that was mirrored by Legolas who was being pulled to a stop next to him, a small trickle of blood still flowing down his neck, staining his tunic an even darker colour. There was a small group of mounted men waiting for them, approximately as big as the one that had invited them to this little walk in the first place. Now completely and thoroughly confused, he watched as the tall leader of 'their' group walked up to a chestnut haired man who was standing next to his horse, looking very impatient.

"Captain Reod." The tall human nodded curtly, apparently eager to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible. "Where is Captain Gasur?"

"He was … detained," the brown haired man answered after a moment's hesitation, his lips curling in either disapproval or faint disgust. "I am here in his stead."

The other human shrugged, apparently rather uninterested in Gasur's doings.  
"They're all yours."

The older man let his eyes wander over the two very angry-looking beings.  
"Like always, your sense of humour leaves much to be desired, Addric. We were told to expect four, not two. Not to mention two elves, of course, not an elf and a boy. Your master promised us four elves.."

"Plans change, and it is not my fault when your information is incorrect. The boy's a ranger, and was with them from the start," the swarthy-faced man only shrugged. "The other two elves are most likely dead; the fire spread faster than we had anticipated. Unlike your people, _we _are not used to setting fire to things."

Reod merely raised an eyebrow and gestured at his lieutenant to have two of the extra horses brought forward.  
"You confuse me with my colleague. Not that it matters." He turned back to the other man as soon as some of his men had stepped forward with the two horses and added, "We will leave then, before the guards forget their ample rewards and return to their posts."

"Yes, that might be wise," Addric nodded, the animosity and resentment almost tangible between the two of them. "Money can't buy everything, after all."

Reod gave him a look that was somewhere between incredulous and amused, a small smile on his lips as he looked pointedly at the taller man and his guards that were pushing the two bound prisoners forward.

"Apparently, it can, including men's allegiances, Soldier of Aberon." He turned around without another word, ignoring the other man's half angry, half ashamed expression and merely nodded at his lieutenant before mounting his horse. "Get them on the horses."

The two prisoners were pushed forward, their faces unreadable and far too calm for people in their situation. Reod almost rolled his eyes when he looked at the elf and the wound on his neck – a troublemaker, apparently. Now why was he not surprised? They'd had more than enough trouble with _their _elf, hadn't they, so why did their lady want another one?

It was the boy – the ranger, Reod corrected himself a little bit incredulously – however who spoke before he was pushed after his companion into the direction of the horses, his voice and eyes harder and more deadly than any mortal's Reod had ever seen. In fact, they reminded him of the dark haired elf's – not only because of the grey colour – which was something that seriously unsettled him.

"If you are right and our companions died in the fire," he told the tall, muscular man calmly, ignoring his guards who were trying to pull him over to one of the horses, "I will come back for you, from the afterlife if I have to. I will find you, no matter where you hide, and I will kill you. It is you who would do well to remember my words, but you will not have long to ponder them. You are already dead."

Addric stared at the younger man for a few incredulous seconds before he began to smile slightly, in a rather forced manner, but Reod did not doubt for a second that the boy meant what he was saying, and so did his friend. The elf, over to the left, might not have spoken the words, but judging from the dark, very, very determined expression on his face he agreed with every single word his companion had spoken.

The leader of the men from Aberon said something in response, but Reod was not listening. He was watching the determined faces of the ranger and the fair haired elf who were now _his _responsibility and couldn't help but think that they were the Gods' punishment for his deeds and cowardice. He'd survived quite a long time in this line of work, and if he knew one thing, it was that these two would be trouble, bound or not.

Lots and lots of trouble.

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Even though he was fairly certain that he was unconscious, he thought that he could still taste thick smoke on his tongue. It wasn't only on his tongue; it seemed to cling to everything, his hair, his clothes, even his skin. He didn't really know how it was possible for an unconscious person to know these things, but at the moment he didn't really care either. All he was aware of was that he felt like a large, smoked ham, and that he would be eaten by someone if he wasn't very careful.

He was still contemplating whether or not he should affix a note to the back of his cloak saying "I am _not _a gammon!" to avoid being cut into pieces and consumed by a giant hobbit (why a giant hobbit, he had no idea himself), when someone took a hold of his shoulder and shook him. More than willing to leave behind the rather disturbing vision of a huge hobbit chasing him with a knife, he struggled towards full awareness, a decision that was only reinforced when a voice cut through the mists that seemed to envelop his mind.

"My lord! You have to wake up!"

A short silence descended and a hand shook his arm again. A moment later another voice could be heard, sounding amused and concerned at the same time.  
"You really shouldn't have done that, Captain."

"I had no other choice!" the first voice protested curtly. "And I know that I shouldn't have done it, Meneldir. Thank you for pointing out the perfectly obvious."

"It was just a comment."

"A perfectly pointless comment, Commander. Now please make yourself useful and check the guard perimeter. I don't want to see a single human in here, do you understand? Not one!"

"Yes, sir."

The first voice mumbled something before it resumed calling his name again, and his arm was shaken once again.  
"Lord Elrohir! You need to _wake up_! Now!"

Deciding that a hobbit eating him would be a lot less annoying than being shaken and yelled at, Elrohir tried to ignore the fact that he was still feeling as if he had spent a prolonged amount of time in a smokehouse and pried his leaden eyelids open. It took him a moment to bring his surroundings into focus, and when he realised that he was lying on his back and staring at the wooden beams of a ceiling he finally asked himself what in the name of Elbereth had happened to him.

Before he could find an answer to that admittedly rather pressing question, a face appeared in his line of vision, looking to equal parts anxious and concerned.  
"My lord? Are you all right?"

Elrohir actually thought about it for a few moments and realised that he had no idea whether or not he was all right. There was something just out of reach of his thoughts, a dark knowledge lurking at the edges of his mind, and the mere attempt of trying to figure out what it was left him with a feeling of such terror and helplessness that he strongly supposed he was indeed not all right.

"I don't think so," he finally answered, squinting up at the face of Isál who appeared slightly reassured by his lord's coherent answer. "What happened? Where are we?"

"In the stables, my lord," the dark haired captain answered, his blue eyes not leaving the older elf's face. "Not much time has passed since you … lost consciousness. Ten minutes at the most. No one will disturb us; Meneldir will see to that. He would be more than willing to kill anyone who would trouble us in any way."

Elrohir took the other elf's hand and allowed himself to be pulled into an upright position and then to his feet. Ignoring the pain that flared to life in his head and, strangely, in his left cheek, he frowned and tried to understand what Isál was talking about.  
"I? Lost consciousness? And who would trouble us? What happened?"

Isál didn't answer immediately, something that Elrohir recognised as an extremely bad sign. The brown haired elf usually told other people exactly what he thought (apart from Gaerîn, of course), and if he hesitated, it was usually a bad sign.

"Do you not remember, my lord?" When Elrohir merely shook his head, wincing and one of his hands reaching up to touch his hurting cheek, Isál bit his lip and added, softly, "The house caught fire. We barely made it out alive."

Isál's words seemed to open a door inside Elrohir's mind that had been tightly closed until now, and the twin's eyes grew large as images began to fill his head.  
"A Elbereth," he muttered, too shocked to even move a muscle. "No. No!"

"Please, my lord, you must listen to me!" Isál pleaded as Elrohir tried to move past him, into the direction of the stables' exit that was guarded by four of his men. "They are still putting out the fire. The humans wouldn't let us help. You would endanger yourself if you went there. I cannot allow that."

"Do not tell me what to do, Captain! I will not stay here when there is the chance that my brother and Legolas need my help!" Elrohir snapped, but closed his eyes as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him.

"Neither would we, my lord," the elven captain shook his head, but firmly stood his ground. "There is nothing we can do. I have posted lookouts around the house that will alert us should anything happen or should the men manage to put out the fire. I understand your worry, I share it, but we can't do anything to help them."

Elrohir frowned, disjointed images of smoke and heat and panic filling his mind, before his eyes snapped open a moment later, the grey depths filled with astonishment and indignation.  
"You hit me!" he exclaimed loud enough so that the warriors around them pretended to find a sudden interest in their surroundings. "By Eru and all the Valar, you hit me, Isál!"

"Yes, I did, my lord," Isál bowed his head, redness creeping up the sides of his face. "I did not mean for you to hit your head, and for any discomfort that I caused you, I apologise. If you wish to report my actions to Lord Glorfindel and your father when we get home, I will not try to stop you. My transgression is clear and indisputable, and I will accept any punishment they will see fit to give me."

"You _hit _me?"

"You were not listening, my lord," Isál interrupted the angrily spluttering twin. "You were trying to climb the stairs even though they were on fire and quite clearly not safe. You did not hear a single word I was saying! I could not stand by and watch you kill yourself! It was the only way to bring you out of the house alive, and I will not apologise for doing what I thought – and still think – to be right."

"And that gives you the right to hit your superior?"

"No," the other elf shook his head as calmly as he could, deciding that the dark haired twin's eyes were blazing at least as brightly as the building outside. "It doesn't. It gives me the right to hit my friend whom I have known for long years in order to save his life, no matter how much he'll hate me afterwards."

Elrohir stared at the other elf, still wild-eyed and looking about ready to hit him in return for a while – maybe one or two hours – but then he took a deep breath and obviously struggled to regain control over his emotions.  
"I do not hate you, Isál. I may be angry enough to strangle you right here and now, but I do not hate you. We will talk about this later. Once I have got over my strangle-you-tendencies."

"Yes, my lord," Isál inclined his head, looking faintly relieved. Not too much, however. Everybody knew that the twins could easily bear a grudge for a century or two. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Don't overdo it," Elrohir growled at him. "Now let me pass. I will not stay here and do nothing while…"

"Elrohir," the captain said, for the first time using the other elf's name, "Listen to me closely. There is nothing we can do except wait. I won't let you try to get yourself killed. This building is completely secure; I had Meneldir make sure of that."

"Why are you so worried about my well-being all of the sudden?" Elrohir snapped. "I need to look around for Legolas and Estel. They are bound to be somewhere – unless you knocked them out, too, and…"

"Elrohir. There is nothing to see except a burning building which 'accidentally' caught fire – all by itself, of course – and a lot of panicking humans running around like chickens."

There was a note of anxiety and hesitation in the other elf's voice even despite his light words, and Elrohir felt how the fear in his heart turned into something entirely different and much, much darker.  
"Tell me."

"I don't know what you're talking about, my lord," Isál shook his head, studiously refusing to meet the other elf's eyes.

"Yes, you do. Tell me, Isál, or _I _will hit _you_."

Isál took a deep breath and finally raised his head again with a sigh.  
"Apart from us, there were five humans in the house. Two servants, the housekeeper, his wife and his son who works as a stable boy here."

"What are trying to say, Captain?" Elrohir frowned, feeling as if someone huge and big-fisted had just punched him in the stomach.

Isál took another deep breath, asking himself if he would manage to hyperventilate and lose consciousness in the next two seconds. Probably not, he decided a moment later.  
"Not one of them managed to leave the house. Their sleeping quarters were in the back of the house and they did not notice the fire in time." Elrohir opened his mouth, but before he could say something, Isál shook his head slowly. "_No one _managed to leave the house except us."

What little hope there was in Elrohir's heart turned into a small pile of dark ashes.  
"No one?"

"No one," Isál shook his head again. "I am sorry, my lord."

"Yes," Elrohir nodded faintly, suddenly feeling the distinct urge to sit down as his knees became rather wobbly. "Yes, so am I."

"We will find out what happened, my lord," Isál said, feeling the insane urge to try and comfort the other elf. He knew that nothing he could say would make the slightest difference and that the only one who would be able to comfort Elrohir right now would be his twin, but he still needed to say something, no matter how insignificant and stupid. "Maybe they found another way down and…"

"And what, Isál? What could they possibly be doing right now!" Elrohir snapped, irrational anger welling up inside of him. "Maybe they jumped out of their window, took a look at the burning house and decided to go for a little walk? Why did they not answer us when we called them?"

"I don't know, my lord," the dark haired captain lowered his head helplessly. "All I know is that this was not an accident. Someone here in Aberon tried to kill us."

"What a surprise!" Elrohir said acidly. "Who'd have thought? And here I always believed that they loved us and wanted us to stay as long as possible!"

Isál didn't say anything and merely fidgeted nervously, obviously wishing to be anywhere but here. Not that Elrohir could blame him, really. He, too, was wishing that all this was nothing but a bad dream.

"Forgive me, Isál," the dark haired twin said after a moment. "I did not mean to snap at you like that. You are right, of course. Someone did try to kill us, someone who is ruthless enough to kill five of his own kind in order to get to us."

"The entire council would have been capable of doing this," the other elf shrugged indifferently. "Men are not known to be overly squeamish when it comes to killing their own, my lord."

"No, they are not," Elrohir agreed. "So that means that Toran might have been responsible, or his brother, the dear Master Tibron. Or Hurag, of course – oh, or about every other man in Aberon. Don't forget the women, either; females are quite capable of doing such things, too."

While he was still speaking the words, Elrohir had taken a step forward, one of his hands going to his belt to check if he still had his knife. In the moment his fingers closed around the dagger's handle, Isál had taken a step forward as well, looking at him with more than just a little apprehension.  
"My lord? May I ask what you are doing?"

Elrohir merely smiled in response, a smile that was so sweet and innocent that it caused cold shivers to run down the other elf's back.  
"Why, Isál," Elrohir said friendly, stepping forward again and forcing Isál to give way, "I am going to find my brother and friend."

"My lord…"

"Don't say it," the older elf interrupted him fiercely. "By the Valar, don't say it, Isál. I know that they are not dead, which means that I only have to find out what happened and where they are. And I intend to do just that."

Isál merely looked at him and the determination that was filling his eyes and realised in a split second that he was fighting a lost battle. What else was new, he asked himself darkly.  
"All right, my lord," he finally relented with a sigh. "But I and half of the men will accompany you; the rest can guard the horses. And I want your word that you will not try to run into the building, kill a few humans or do something equally foolish. I myself would like nothing better than to strangle a few of them, but I doubt it will help us find them."

"Are you asking this of me as your superior?" Elrohir asked with an arched eyebrow.

"No," Isál shook his head seriously. "I ask this of you as my friend. Don't make me return to your father with the news that the men who killed his advisor and my friends also killed his sons. Please, _mellon nín_. Don't do this to me. All I want is your word, and I will be content."

"Then," the other elf smiled slightly, "I will give it gladly. I will not do something … what did you call it? … 'foolish' until we know what happened and Legolas and Estel can tell us how they managed to get themselves into trouble once more."

"That is good enough for me, my lord," Isál bowed his head slightly and was about to say more, but held his tongue when he realised that he was talking to nothing but air.

Elrohir had already sidestepped him and was hurrying out of the building, an expression of such determination and barely suppressed anger on his face that Isál found himself pitying the humans for a second. Only for a second, of course.

With a loud sigh Isál gestured the men standing at the door to accompany their lord as he slowly began to follow him as well. He had lost two of those under his protection today already, he would be damned if he lost the third one as well.

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Reod was not enjoying this mission. By all the Gods above, he was not.

That was most likely because he had – contrary to the dear Captain Gasur or Salir or their cronies – managed to retain some measure of sanity and common sense. He had to admit to himself that he was too cowardly or too sensible to do anything about his colleagues' questionable judgement, but that didn't change the fact that about ninety-five percent of Donrag's leaders were as mad as a group of village idiots.

The brown haired captain turned and gave his two prisoners a quick look while they rode into the courtyard of Lady Acalith's house. If the fact that they were being taken to Donrag had in any way surprised them, they had most certainly not shown it. They were still as even-faced and silent as in the beginning, and the only thing that had changed was the level of contempt that was easily visible in their eyes.

With an inner shrug Reod turned back around. He didn't care in the slightest what either of them thought, about him or anything else. He was not comfortable with the presence of yet another elf – they were far more trouble than they were worth and more than a little disconcerting to have around – and if he was completely honest with himself, he wasn't too thrilled about the ranger's sudden appearance either.

He knew that elves were trouble, and he was beginning to suspect that the same could be said about rangers. Why anyone would travel in the company of elves in the first place was beyond him, and the boy hadn't only travelled with them. Judging by the way he had glared at Addric, Hurag's ever-smiling helper, he was no mere travelling companion – he was friends with the elves, no matter how strange that sounded. Good friends even, probably, which meant that there was either a lot more to this boy than met the eye or that he was insane.

Well, he thought wryly to himself, if he was, he could just sign up to join their forces. Most of the leaders were insane, after all, so he would fit right in. He would probably try to kill all of them at one point or other, but until then, it might be fun to have him around. Besides, he couldn't be stupider than those two morons who were guarding the other elf's cell. It was a physical impossibility.

The lead horses stopped in front of the stables, and Reod dismounted, giving his lieutenant the order to see to it that the horses were stabled and the men dismissed. He pushed his way through his men who were apparently all trying to get their horses inside the dimly lit stables at once, and a few moments later he stopped in front of only six people who were still sitting on top of their horses.

Reod gave his two prisoners a sharp look, averted his eyes under their rather unfriendly answering glare and nodded curtly at the four guards that were flanking the two beings left and right.  
"Get them off the horses."

The four soldiers needn't be told twice, and a second later one had let go of the ranger's horse's reins and had rammed his elbow into the younger man's side. It might be a reasonable method to ensure your prisoner's attention and co-operation, but it wasn't very original, Reod thought to himself, inwardly rolling his eyes. These four were of Gasur's guard, though, so he really shouldn't be surprised about their lack of creativity.

"You heard him, ranger!" one of them yelled, even though he was only about two feet away from the prisoner. "Get off!"

The ranger mumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath, something that earned him yet another blow, this time a blow to his face that nearly threw him off his horse, but he complied after a few moments after he had regained his bearings. As soon as he had set foot onto the paved courtyard, the two guards who had dismounted with him had grasped his arms, holding him firmly in place. The younger man didn't even seem to notice, however, since all his attention was focused on the fair haired elf who was merely staring at his own guards as if they had asked him to turn himself invisible instead of telling him to dismount. There was a note of slight desperation on the ranger's face, as if he had seen this particular scene before and the results hadn't been overly pleasant.

They weren't in this case, either. The guard who was not holding the horse's reins gave the elven prisoner a bright, malicious smile and drew back slightly. All the elf could do was glare at the man before a fist connected with his throat, hitting the long cut on his neck with almost perverse precision.

The elf's face turned a rather interesting shade of grey as his breathing was so suddenly impaired, leaving him helplessly gasping for air. A moment later he turned as white as snow as the pain washed over him, and if the other guard hadn't grasped his arm and roughly pulled him off the horse, he would have plummeted from the animal's back. The elf was swaying slightly from side to side, his eyes tightly shut, as soon as he gained his footing, and the ranger turned to the guard who had hit his friend, looking more furious than anyone Reod had ever seen.

"I'll kill you," the dark haired man informed the other friendly, in an utterly uncompromising way. "For that, I'll kill you."

"I seriously doubt that, boy," Reod interrupted him before he could say more. As amusing as all this was, he was in no mood to stand here and watch Gasur's men beat up the prisoners. They'd do that anyway, of course, but there was no need for him to watch. "Take them away."

Not waiting to see if his order was obeyed, Reod turned around, intent of finding Gasur and getting rid of these troublesome prisoners. It took him quite a bit longer than he'd thought, but finally he managed to locate the younger man in one of the smithies. He was – of course – just having his knives sharpened, even despite the fact that it was already well past midnight. The smith working on the weapons was looking rather tired, too, but he obviously possessed enough common sense not to deny one of Gasur's requests.

"Gasur," Reod inclined his head, stepping next to the other man. "I take it your … meeting with our lady was successful?"

If Gasur noticed the sarcasm that coloured the other man's words, he did not show it. Then again, Reod decided, he most likely hadn't noticed it. Gasur wasn't known for subtlety or wit.

"Yes, it was, Reod," the younger captain nodded, his light brown eyes alight with something Reod did not care to try and identify. "Did you get them?"

"Only two of them, unfortunately," Reod admitted darkly. "Our 'friend' was obviously unable to keep his words. The other two are most likely dead; the fire got a little out of control."

"Yes, such things happen," Gasur smiled ironically, taking one of the freshly sharpened knives from the weapon smith and inspecting its blade. "Two or four, it's of little consequence. Lady Acalith wants to talk to them tomorrow before they're executed, just in case they know anything. I doubt it, though."

"You are not … interested in them?" Reod asked, trying not to let his incredulity show.

"Why should I be?" Gasur asked nonchalantly with an air of innocence that did not match his character at all. "I still have our other … 'guest' to 'talk' to. He's a lot more interesting than two elves I have never met before. As long as they die, I don't care what happens to them."

"An elf and a ranger," Reod corrected absent-mindedly. Had Gasur really just passed up a chance to torture someone? "Yet another thing our 'friend' did not mention."

He hadn't really expected Gasur to react to his words, but the younger captain seemed to freeze on the spot, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the shining blade of his knife. For a few seconds he remained motionless, standing as still as a stone pillar, but then he turned around slightly to look Reod in the eye, something the other man didn't appreciate in the slightest.

"An elf and a ranger?" he repeated softly, almost mildly, but there was a steely apprehension in his voice that caused Reod to shiver openly.

"Yes," Reod nodded, confused. "They appear to be friends, as ridiculous as that may sound."

Something dark appeared in Gasur's eyes, something wild and cruel, and he slowly and purposefully replaced his knife in its sheath and turned around, fixing Reod with a stare that made him cringe inwardly.  
"Take me to them."

Reod nodded again and began to walk into the direction of the main house, trying to hide his mounting confusion – something that, unknowingly to him, was exactly what Aragorn was trying to do at the moment. Outwardly the young ranger appeared calm and composed, anger being the only emotion visible on his face, but as soon as the door had slammed shut behind their guards, the mask he had been working so hard to keep affixed to his face crumbled, exposing fear and concern.

"Legolas?" he asked softly, just in case the men were listening outside the door. He gave the rest of their cell a quick look and the chains that bound his wrists to the wall a small tug before he turned his attention to the fair haired elf who was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and his face a pasty white. "Legolas? Are you all right?"

The elf didn't answer immediately and merely took deep breaths, but then he smiled slightly and opened his eyes.  
"That … hurt."

Aragorn smiled back, intensely relieved that Legolas was well enough to joke, even if only badly so. The elf hadn't moved much while they had been dragged down into the cellars and into this room and had been chained to the wall, and Aragorn suspected that the brutal blow to his already injured throat hurt a lot more than he had let on.

"I can imagine," he nodded slightly, once again tugging at the chains and wincing when his still mending wrist protested sharply. It hadn't been overly happy about having been bound behind his back, and being chained to a wall did nothing to improve its mood in the slightest. "I am sorry, _mellon nín_," he added after a second. "I shouldn't have tried to call out to Elrohir. I should have known that they would do something like that."

"It was worth a try, Estel," Legolas shook his head slightly, inwardly debating how much satisfaction it would give his captors to see them sitting on the floor when they returned. Right now, sitting down sounded like an exceedingly good idea. "I would have done the same."

"Which, once again, proves that you are just as stupid as I am," Aragorn informed his friend.

"You have rubbed off on me," Legolas agreed darkly. "That is why we are getting into so much trouble all the time." He frowned, lifting one manacled hand to his throat and wincing when he touched the bruised, cut flesh. "Speaking of which: Who in the name of Eru Ilúvatar _are _these people?"

"I haven't got the slightest idea," Aragorn admitted, leaning his aching head against the cool stone wall. "We're in Donrag, that much is certain. As to why – that I cannot tell you either."

"Hmm," Legolas nodded thoughtfully, dropping his hand to his side. "Do you think they want to kill us?"

"Probably," the man nodded after a moment.

"So I had thought," Legolas sighed. "I can't say that I am overly surprised, either."

Aragorn shrugged as well as someone chained to a wall can shrug and was about to retort something when the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard, coming quickly closer. He gave Legolas a sharp look, trying to beg him to remain silent and not antagonise their captors for once, but Legolas was far too busy trying to tell him the same thing to notice.

Far quicker than either of them would have thought possible, the wooden door of their cell swung open and two men strode into the room, one of them looking completely emotionless and the other utterly confused. The latter Aragorn recognised as the leader of the men who had brought them here, and he was about to give him the _look _when he felt more than saw Legolas stiffen next to him.

The dark haired ranger turned slightly to look at his friend who was staring with wide eyes at the other human who was standing slightly behind the chestnut haired captain. Just when Aragorn was about to turn away to look at the slightly smaller man, Legolas sighed softly, sounding frustrated and tired beyond measure.

"Oh," was all the fair haired elf said flatly. "It's _you_."

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend_

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•grins broadly• Gosh, I have been waiting for this particular scene for ages. I'm quite pleased that, apparently, none of you recognised the dear Captain Gasur. So: Who is he? Why does Legolas know him? I wonder if someone will find out... Anyway, sorry about the lack of "real" torture (gives Jack odd look). Don't worry, it's all in the next chapter. •evil grin• We also might see a little reunion between Erestor and someone, even though it won't be Glorfindel. You can't have everything, can you? Nope, you cannot. Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated and might help to calm me down this coming week. Considering how VERY important that seminar-thingy is, I'd say it's not all that likely. •g• Still: Review? Please?

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**Additional A/N: **

**HarryEstel - **Hmm, not really. I left you there till the 25th. Ha ha ha, okay, not funny yet. Sorry. Ignore me. •g• I'm also sorry about the cliffies, but there are going to be quite a few of them in the near future. Yup, my alter ego got out again. Good guess. •g•  
**Ithiliel Silverquill** - You go, girl. Gasur most certainly deserves to be hit ... again ... and ... again... •g• So I'm forgiven? Thank you! That means I can go and kill the next OC ... hmm, let me see, should it be Celylith or someone else... •evil grin• Damn, I forgot your birthday! Happy belated Birthday, then! •hits herself• Gods, I really have a memory like a sieve. And yes ... •hangs head in shame• ... the spy really is Hurag. Not very original, I know. Thanks for all your kind words; the exams actually went quite well, as far as I can tell at the moment. Now, only that seminar and two papers and then I'm free to start a new term! Yay! •g•  
**AngelMouse5 **- •g• Thanks a lot! I have lately asked myself if I could ever write a story from a single POV and really didn't know the answer. I'll have to try one time. Maybe in the little story I promised Jack a while back... Yeah, that might be doable. •g• Yes, I like being evil and crytic. Thanks a lot for your reviews!  
**Dae **- So you knew it would end in a cliffy, huh? Well, let me tell you one thing: There are going to be a few more cliffies here from now on. My alter ego managed to escape again - I can't stop her! •grrr• Oh, and don't worry. Gasur •will• realise that Estel's a ranger. Which is not really bad per se, but since he's a particular ranger ... I am not making much sense, am I? •Dae shakes head• Well, that's not really a surprise. Sorry. •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan **- Congrats! There are not many things worse than a broken computer. Well, yes, actually there are, but still. •g• And I completely agree. Fireflies can be really, really horrible creatures. You never know when they will attack you. •g• And didn't you learn anything? •shakes head sadly• German is a horrible language and not worth learning. Do you by any chance know Mark Twain's essay/article/whatever, called "The Awful German Language"? It's hilarious - and so true! •g•  
**Maerz **- Huh - ich habe gerade jemanden erzaehlt, wie furchtbar die deutsche Sprache ist. Tolles Timing mal wieder, Nili... •g• Du bist also gerade am Eingehen, was? Das mit dem Durchdrehen waere ja noch okay, aber eingehen... •schuettelt den Kopf• Nichts uebertreiben hier! Wenigstens machst du Ferien in Frankreich, das ist doch was! Ich beneide dich! Ferien sind garantiert besser als Klausuren... •gibt Uni boese Blicke• Ich gebe zu, dass es durchaus moeglich ist, dass Erestor kein Mitleid will. Gebrauchen koennte er es ganz sicher... •g• Ganz zu schweigen von 'ner Rettung natuerlich. Und glaub' mir, ich wuerde dich liebendgerne besuchen! Alles ist besser als dieses Wochenende! Ich muss dir allerdings Recht geben, Acalith hat nicht die geringste Ahnung, in was sie hier gerade hineingeraet. Dumme Gans, selbst Schuld. •g•  
**Ithilvalon/Beling **- Oh, knock yourself out. Reminding me will most certainly not hurt. I had already forgotten about it. I will have to look into elven funeral rites, though. I honestly don't know whether they buried or burnt their dead. I'd say burnt, but I don't really know. Oh, and I am sorry about keeping you guys waiting for so long. I did not mean to, really. And I don't really think Galadriel or Thranduil or one of their warriors (except for Celylith, of course) will make an appearance. I don't think they were in that close contact back then, or that was what it looked like to me in the books. I am evil in the best sort of way? Thank! •huggles•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing **- Yeah, I have to admit that the whole crossbow is a little problem. They're nasty little weapons. I have to admit that I don't know yet whether or not they will be sharing a cell with Erestor. They might end up in one close to his, but I don't know. The possibility's there, though. •g• I am sorry about not updating for so long, but I really was busy. I had three evil exams, which were rather important. Now that's over though, yay! Thanks for your review! •does NOT huggle•  
**Barbara Kennedy **- A villain with a squirrel on his shoulder and a long black cloak, huh? Now that is a seriously disconcerting image! •g• Must - not - put it - into next - story - must - not... •g• See what you've done! Yet another plot bunny, thanks a lot!  
**Tineryn **- I'm sure your parents won't do something as perfectly evil as that, would they? Nah, don't answer that. Parents can be very evil creatures. •g• And I have to agree: No one was surprised in the least. You are quite correct, you know, Elrohir might be the one to rescue them in the end. Or at least help others to rescue them. Acalith is most certainly irritating. Insane and stupid, but also irritating. •g• Thanks a lot, the exams are over now, yay! That's something, isn't it? •g•  
**Itha Arrowland **- LOL, no, it is NOT good for them. But all of us knew that, didn't we? •g• Thanks a lot for your review!  
**Lynn-G **- Don't worry about Elrohir and Isál. They're fine. Not fine or happy at the moment, but fine. •evil grin• I don't really know when the Rivendell party will arrive, but it won't be in the next day or so. I'm sorry, but it would ruin the whole thing. •very evil grin• But they will get here, in time. Eventually. Maybe. •g•  
**Grumpy **- Yes, you're right. •g• They have stolen all the warning signs, evil men that they are. It would have made everything a lot easier for our heroes - not to mention less painful - but that would have been a bit too easy. We can't have that, can we? •g• And Noldor ARE drinking blood. Just ask Elrond. •g•  
**Golden Elf **- You might be right, you know. The humans from Aberon and/or Donrag aren't exactly what someone would call nice or friendly. They're not meant to be, either, but I guess that doesn't really change anything. •g• LOL, it's truly unimaginable that Elrohir would brood. He'd •never• do something like that, would he? I'm glad you liked the part with Yavanna and Aulë. I really think they wouldn't stand the slightest chance. They might be Valar, yes, but they don't know what they're getting into. Never underestimate stubborn half-elves. •g•  
**Ventinari **- So you're getting used to the cliffies, huh? Congrats! Even I get surprised by them from time to time... •g• Take this one, for example. I just thought of it a week ago, during a very boring archaeology class. I'm strange, I know. •g• Oh, and the men holding the crossbows are most definitely bad! They're not Gasur's men, but they're still bad! Elladan is with Elrond, Celylith, Glorfindel and the rest. He was not mentioned by name last chapter, but he was "one-third of the menace" or something like that. I wasn't mean (or suicidal) enough to actually leave him behind. •g• Sorry about disappointing you, but Erestor won't be in this chapter. I valiantly tried to put him in, but was not very successful. Okay, not at all. He'll most likely be in the next chapter, don't worry. No promises, though. I know my characters by now. •g• Thanks a lot, my exams are over. Finally! And I knew that whole "honey" thing. I think. Like "mate" or something, I guess. Don't worry, I don't have writer's block, only very little time. Oh, and I never like to write torture in any way, so that's another reason for my lateness, I guess. •frowns• Is "lateness" even a word? My thesaurus says it is, but it really looks strange... Whatever. Cookies are always welcome though, especially choc. chip cookies! •g•  
**Just Jordy **- Aw, come on, you know you really love them. Cliffies are nice and fluffy, and harmless and VERY amusing. •g• Okay, so maybe not all of that, but at least some of it. •g• You would be very sad indeed if I should decide (and that will never happen!) that I won't write any more cliffies. You may admit it. •g•  
**Marbienl **- So I'm not allowed to kill any more elves? •pouts• You're no fun at all... I'll think about it. It's so much fun though, so I really can't promise anything. •g• LOL, yes, you're right. Celylith might still walk into almost certain doom, but at least now he's been warned. That's something, right? •g• I don't know about granting Legolas that particular request. It would be a quite boring story, wouldn't it? But I AM in fact "planning" (meaning I thought about it twice) a story where something like that might fit in. I might write it after that little story I promised Jack, if I should ever manage to write something like that. •shrugs• Who knows? Someone else asked me to bring the dead elves "home", too, so I'll really have to look into elven funeral rites. I really have no idea which solution they preferred. Nope, no hints about Glorfindel finding Erestor. I simply have no idea, so they'd be lies anyway. And would I EVER lie to you? Never! •g•  
**Aratfeniel **- Oh, trust me, I know EXACTLY what you're talking about. I really don't know how I did it last year. I barely have time to write this weird story, let alone read others! Great you liked the last ending! It was supposed to be funny, so you were perfectly right to laugh. •g• I hope you didn't wait too long? Only ... hmmm, five more days than planned? •far too bright smile• Sorry about that. •g•  
**Washow **- That's actually a rather interesting question. Has Elrond rubbed off on his sons or did it happen the other way round? Maybe it's all Celebrían's fault, too. She's Celeborn's and Galadriel's daughter, after all, so she can't be boring. A little creepy like her mother maybe, but not boring. •g• It's another good question about how many years at university I still have to survive. It's two more years till I have my Master (or at least our equivalent, which is a little "higher" up the scale, since you get it after about 5 years, not after 4). Maybe I'll try to get a doctor's degree after that, so it might be as many as three more years. Oh joy. •g•  
**Soulinlondon **- To quote Elrond "It's not a streak, it's a way of life". •g• •Of course• I have a mean streak! I'm me! •g• Oh, and I don't know about that. How much do you know about Tetrarchic Palaces in Serbia? Or about the Roman Conquest of Britain (the one under Claudius, not Caesar's amateurish attempt)? I don't know anything yet, so there's the fair chance that you know more than I do. •g• And damn you! •shakes fist and points at small fluffy bunny that has attached itself to her leg• Yet another of those damned things! I have more than enough of them already, but no, you had to go and mention the twins teasing Aragorn after the War of the Ring. Thanks a lot, mate. •g• J/k, it's an interesting idea! As soon as I have written the thousands of other plot bunnies, I migth give it a try! •g•  
**J-mercuryuk **- Thanks a lot, as far as I can tell, the exams went quite well. I'm much more worried about the seminar-thingy. •shudders at mere thought• Oh, and nothing will happen to Aragorn and Legolas. You know me. I would never hurt them in any way. Nu-uh, not me. •g• Glorfindel will find Erestor, in the end, but not right now. It would ruin the whole thing, wouldn't it? •g• Thanks a lot for the long review!  
**Viggomaniac **- Well, who is more shallow, the one who reviews late but in time or the one who keeps her readers waiting for nearly a week? Now that I think about it, don't answer that question. •g• Besides, I totally understand. Sometimes RL really comes back to bite you in the a••. And no, Aragorn and Legolas aren't getting into any trouble at all. Nope. They're perfectly safe. •fake smile• What? Why do you look at me like that? I'd never hurt them - permanently, that is. •g•  
**Elitenschwein **- Du kannst dir nicht vorstellen, wie schuldig ich mich fuehle. Da beeilst du dich extra, um noch rechtzeitig eine Review zu schicken, und was mache ich? Faul auf der Haut liegen! (Na ja, eigentlich haben Jack und ich da gerade "Alexander" und "Blade III" geguckt und Strichlisten gefuehrt, aber das ist ein ganz anderes Thema •g•) Und Recht hast du natuerlich: Ich an Stelle des durchschnittlichen Bewohner von Aberon u./o. Donrag waere schon lange nach Mordor ausgewandert. Das duerfte da ein klein wenig sicherer sein. •g• Und ETWAS Ranger-torture kommt ja vor ... na gut, eher ein wenig allgemeine Misshandlung, aber das ist besser als gar nichts, oder? •hoffnungsvoller Blick•  
**Armageddon5 **- I know! I know I'm late! I'm SO sorry, I really am! I just didn't have any time at all to write lately - I know, I'm pathetic. Thank you so much for your review - I am really feeling bad! Well, at least a little! •evil grin•  
**Zinnith **- Wow. •sits stunned• Thank you VERY much for the TON of reviews! •huggles• I actually lost a bet with myself, because I really couldn't believe you would review every single chapter - once again, thanks! •huggles again• I'm sorry to hear that you didn't have any time at all - university can be really annoying sometimes, can't it? •growls at innocent building• LOL, Acalith is not a Nazgûl, even though that would have been slightly amusing. I have to admit that it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that there are no female Nazgûl - just look at the LOTR. How many female characters which actually say or do something are there? Arwen, Galadriel, Éowyn, Ioreth, Mrs. Cotton, Goldberry and Shelob. I might have missed one or two, but there aren't a whole lot more. Tolkien was not too fond of female characters, if you ask me. •g• I'm not really a Star Trek fan either. I liked DS9, but only Seasons 4-6. The rest isn't nearly as much fun. •shrugs• Once again, thanks a lot for all your reviews, and I'm impressed that you're still more or less sane after reading 12 chapters of this story! Congrats! •shakes hand•  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure **- Ah, don't apologise. I'm late too, so it doesn't matter. It wouldn't matter either if I'd been on time, but that's another story. •g• And you know that you don't hate my cliffies (you might hate me, though, I'll admit that •g•). You would miss them if they were gone, admit it. •g• And you're Erestor, huh? •raises eyebrow• I see... No, j/k, it sounds like a good choice. I wonder if your teacher can figure that out... •g• And I, too, think that Glorfindel is actually a kind elf. At the moment, though, he's rather annoyed and angry. So he might be able to do something like that. •shrugs• Good riddance to Gasur, I say. •g•

**Hmm, I'm still trying to get used to the whole new design. I don't think I like it all that much - I liked that blue version a lot better. But hey, FF-net hates me anyway, so I don't know why I'm even surprised. •g•**


	21. What Goes Around

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Well, as I expected last week, I have indeed turned into a nervous wreck. I am only one step away from going out of my mind right now, so please forgive me for not writing a long A/N as usual. I know how much you LOVE them. •g• Oh, and I must apologise for not replying to your wonderful reviews this time. I barely managed to get this chapter ready for posting, and I really don't have any time at all. I loved every single review, I swear I did, but I really have to work on my little lecture. It's still two minutes too long! •grumbles•

I have to say, however, that quite a few of you were not that far off with your guesses. Gasur is indeed a character from "The Heart of Men", even though he's acquired an alias. He's not Adruran, however - he's too reasonable for something like this. I might put him into another story one day, though, and Cendan (from TWIN), too. I really liked him. Oh, and just to clear up one thing: It was Girion (again, from TWIN) who sent Adruran and his merry men to Lake-town, not Acalith's husband. That's why they didn't want to return to him with the news of their failure - honestly, who can blame the poor guys? •g•

It seems that this IS another long A/N. Typical. Anyway, here's the next chapter, yes, WITH the torture. There is also a little bit of Erestor in the end (there's more to come in the next chapter, though), and lots of Aragorn and Legolas. Who are being stupid. Very much so. •thinks• Hmm, to be perfectly honest, it's not much EXCEPT torture. •frowns• I need professional help. Lots and lots of it.

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 21

Legolas was no stranger to confusion.

He had been in situations where nothing and no one had made the remotest bit of sense; even in many situations. Most of said situations had been during the last few years, more precisely ever since he had met Aragorn. Most of the time he hadn't the faintest idea what the man was talking about; confusion was simply a by-product of spending any amount of time with him.

Right about now, however, he was not merely confused. He was also completely incredulous and close to believing that he or one of his ancestors had done something terrible to someone very important in a former life, most likely to one of the Valar. He didn't really know what that could have been, especially considering that, as far as he knew, he didn't have any Noldorin ancestors, but it must have been something truly spectacular.

Taking a deep breath, he shortly closed his eyes before carefully opening them again, noticing that Aragorn, too, was staring at the newcomer with eyes that were so wide that they were in the distinct danger of dropping out of his head. When the scene in front of him didn't change in the slightest a few seconds later, he had to admit to himself that this was in fact real and not some sort of phantasm.

The object of their astonished scrutiny was apparently just overcoming some sort of mild shock himself, but judging from the grin that slowly began to spread over his face, he was quickly coming to terms with the new situation.

"Well, well, well," the dark haired man drawled, taking a slow, languid step forward in order to scrutiny his captives. "If that's not the wood-elf and his little ranger friend. Where is your elven companion, the one with the silver hair?"

Legolas raised an eyebrow and looked steadily at the captain, but quickly decided against not answering him. If the man was still the same person he had been five months ago, he would simply relish the chance of being able to use an act of defiance as an excuse for hurting Aragorn or him. Then again, he decided darkly, he would probably not even need any kind of pretence to do something like that.

"I don't know," he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, looking as clueless as possible – something that wasn't all that hard. He really had not the slightest idea where Celylith was at the moment. If he had any sense at all, he would be somewhere safe and far away from here. "Where are the dozens of mindless minions that used to accompany you everywhere?"

"Outside," Aragorn commented wryly, having apparently regained the ability to speak. "They're in uniform this time, but other than that, there are no significant differences."

Surprisingly, Gasur didn't look angry at all and only smiled, the smile of a man whose dearest wish had just been fulfilled.  
"For a moment, I wasn't sure whether it was really the two of you, but now all my doubts have been erased."

"Glad we could be of service," Legolas smiled at the dark haired man with a cheerfulness he didn't feel at all. Five months ago this man had been a psychopath whose only goal in life seemed to have been killing him and his friends, and he had the very distinct feeling that he hadn't seen the error of his way or had changed in any significant way.

Gasur turned away from them, ignoring the two prisoners, and gave Reod an intense stare that would nearly have set the other's hair ablaze.  
"These two are mine."

"In fact," the chestnut haired man said carefully, eyeing Gasur like a serpent that was about to strike, "I believe that, technically speaking, they belong to our lady."

"They are _mine_!" Gasur hissed at the other captain, moving closer to him in a way that reminded not only Reod of a predator closing in for the kill. "You know as well as do I that our lady will not deny me this! They are to die anyway, and it will make not the slightest difference to her or anyone else when and how!"

Reod clenched his jaw and plucked up all of his remaining courage, knowing that he couldn't back down so easily with the door open and the guards outside hearing their every word.  
"I will not be held accountable for this, Gasur. You need to clear this with our lady or one of the council members first."

"You will not be held accountable for anything," the other man shook his head, obviously working hard on regaining some semblance of control over his emotions. "If anyone will be, it will be me. I would advise you not to cross me in this matter, Reod. You would come to regret it, you can be certain about that."

Reod shuddered inwardly, remembering the way the dark haired elf had looked the last time he had seen him. He knew what Gasur was capable of, and if the rumours were indeed true and he and Lady Acalith… Reod interrupted himself before he could finish that thought, shuddering once more. He would go to great lengths in order to avoid to imagine this.

"Are you threatening me, Captain?" he asked in a low tone of voice, far more calmly than he really was. For a moment, Reod couldn't believe he had really said that. What in the name of all the Gods would he do if Gasur said yes?

Gasur quickly looked over his shoulder, checking the guards' position, before he looked back at the older man, an eyebrow arched mockingly.  
"I think both of us know that I do not need to, Reod. You are too ... experienced to look for a fight with me."

Reod fought to keep eye contact with the other captain, but finally found that he couldn't keep looking at the chilling, cruel glint in Gasur's eyes. He lowered his head, once again cursing his cowardice. It might have been a survival instinct or sanity, of course, but he strongly suspected that it was cowardice.  
"I do not want to fight with you, Gasur."

"Good to hear that we both agree on this," Gasur grinned maliciously before he jerked his head into the direction of the two chained prisoners. "Let's try this again. They are mine."

Reod shrugged in a nonchalant manner that didn't look all that nonchalant at all.  
"If you say so." Gasur merely stared at him without saying anything, and Reod finally decided that he might be afraid of a man who was almost young enough to be his son, but that he was perfectly able of recognising a hint when he saw one. "I will leave you then."

"That would be highly appreciated."

"I will inform our lady of this, however, Gasur. She will hear about this."

"Of course she will," Gasur smiled indulgently, already turning into the direction of the door. "Tomorrow morning, that is. In – let me see – about eight or nine hours."

Even though he was to equal parts surprised, disgusted and furious, Legolas had to nod his head minutely in grudging approval. He had spent enough time listening to diplomats who were threatening each other to realise that … Gasur, was that what he was calling himself now? … had at least learnt some restraint and had also acquired a certain, calculating attitude. Now that he thought about it, it was yet another point on his ever-growing list of things that would ensure that this night would _not _end well.

Reod, apparently realising when he was fighting a lost battle, merely nodded his head, as stony-faced as a carved marble statue.  
"Only one more thing," he said before he turned to leave. "Do _not _kill them. I know that you have a certain amount of … influence on our lady, but even she will not be pleased if she finds that you have killed these two. Especially considering that the boy's a ranger."

"Who said anything about killing them?" Gasur asked with a thoroughly disconcerting smile. "Where is the fun in that?"

There was nothing he could reply to this, and so Reod merely turned around and left the room without another word. For a few moments Gasur looked after the other man, before he turned back around, gave Aragorn and Legolas a bright smile that served to give him the appearance of an overly happy orc and nodded at the guards standing in front of the open door.

"Get them to the interrogation room and make sure they are tightly secured. I will be there in a few moments." He turned and strode out of the room, but before he had taken more than two steps he stopped and turned back around, giving one of the guards a dark, absolutely serious look. "Oh, and if they manage to get away, I will kill you, slowly. Then I will kill every man in your unit, and then I will kill your friends and families. Am I understood?"

None of the men even blinked, apparently completely convinced that their captain would do just what he had just threatened. Gasur didn't even wait to hear their mumbled affirmatives before he disappeared down the corridor, and half a minute later Aragorn and Legolas were dragged down the same by a group of soldiers who were looking as if they were willing to do about everything to ensure that their prisoners didn't escape. Legolas couldn't even blame them, considering what they had just been threatened with.

A few minutes later, he was pulled to a stop in front of a large, wooden door, and Legolas used the few seconds that the leading soldier needed to select the right key and turn it noisily in the lock to glare at the humans that were restraining him. It showed little effect – which was not all that surprising, especially since their captain was a psychopath, Legolas decided – but it was rather relaxing. He didn't know these people and didn't know their reasons for working for the mysterious lady of this place, but he didn't want to know either. He had lost all interest in such things in the moment they had hurt his friend, and they would be able to count themselves lucky if he didn't kill him outright the next time he got the chance.

The door opened with a loud, ominous sound that Legolas had come to expect from doors leading to such rooms, and while he was being pushed over the threshold, he decided that he had at least managed to memorise the route they had taken. He was a wood-elf, after all; after navigating Mirkwood's vast, dark forests, something like this was child's play. He didn't know if or when this knowledge would become useful, but he would be able to find his way back to their former cell, and from there to the exit. It was about the only positive thing he could think of at the moment.

One of the soldiers rekindled the fire in one of the braziers while another went around the room and lit the torches that had been placed in cracks in the obviously rather old stone walls, and Legolas unconsciously stopped dead in his tracks. There were two or three pairs of iron handcuffs fastened to the walls, at a height that would chain a normal human's hands roughly above his head. Since Aragorn and he were both taller than the average human, it would secure their hands at about the level of their shoulders, something that sounded rather uncomfortable.

It turned out to be rather uncomfortable, too. Prompted by the sight of the shackles and the ominous, dark red stains on the metal chains and the wall, Legolas tried to resist; a very old instinct that had served him well in past told him urgently that he did _not _want to be put into these chains, and Legolas found that he agreed wholeheartedly.

He tried to shake off the hold the men had on him, but quickly came to realise that he might as well try to arm wrestle a troll. There were simply too many of them, and it turned out that they knew perfectly well that they only needed to hit his injured neck again to make him comply. The blow to his throat left him gasping and helplessly trying to draw breath into suddenly highly uncooperative lungs, and before he even knew what was happening, his arms were wrenched up and something cool and rough snapped closed around his wrist.

The blond elf had finally managed to take a breath by the time the men left the room, but it took him almost a whole minute until the roaring in his ears had diminished enough for him to hear Aragorn call his name, sounding more panicked and impatient with every passing second.

"Legolas! Come now, answer me! Legolas!"

"Yes," the elf all but croaked, trying to touch his hurting throat and finding that, this time, he couldn't move his hands more than half an inch into either direction. "Yes, I'm awake."

"Don't do something like this!" Aragorn chided his friend, staring at him with wide eyes. "You sounded as if you would suffocate!"

"I think I will if one more person confuses my throat with a hay sack," Legolas told him, swallowing heavily and finding that his throat was beginning to swell already. "Don't worry, Estel. I will be fine."

"Worry? Me?" the man asked incredulously, looking at his elven friend with wide, innocent eyes that would have fooled most people. "Why should I worry, my friend? We are chained to a wall that is covered with dried blood, in a town whose ruler had most likely my father's delegation killed for reasons we don't know, and are awaiting the arrival of that … that madman! Please, do tell me why I should worry!"

"You're right," Legolas nodded emotionlessly, wincing inwardly as the minute movement renewed the pain in his throat. "You _should _worry."

"It is so nice to hear that we agree," Aragorn said darkly. He looked around the room, trying to find anything that might offer them some clues or means to escape, and finally leaned back against the damp stone wall, tugging softly at his unyielding chains. His voice was very serious when he spoke again, and Legolas had no trouble hearing the fear in the man's words. "What is he doing here, Legolas?"

Legolas leaned his head against the wall as well and gave his friend a sad smile.  
"If I knew that, _mellon nín_, I would have made sure that we stayed in Rivendell and never set foot into this valley."

"I thought he was dead!" Aragorn exclaimed, silver eyes dark and confused. "They told us he was dead!"

"So they did," Legolas nodded. "Most people said his employer simply dumped his body into the lake."

"A wonderful way to dispose of a body," a voice behind them agreed. "Quick, clean, and if you do it right, almost impossible to trace back to you. It would have been a good choice."

Legolas gave Aragorn a last look before he turned his head as slowly as he could, both in order to display indifference and to prevent his throat from starting to hurt once more. As he had already known, it was Gasur who had entered their cell and closed the door behind him, moving quite soundlessly for a human – something that only served to strengthen the impression of a predator sneaking up on its prey. There was another man with him, a human Legolas hadn't seen before, who was carrying a large satchel whose contents clanked slightly when he moved.

Legolas frowned inwardly. He did not need – or want – to think about what was in that bag.

"And as a madman who has used that method quite often himself, you are in a unique position to judge that, are you not?" the elf smiled friendly, something that looked rather disconcerting due to the long cut on his throat that was once again leaking blood.

"Indeed," Gasur grinned good-naturedly, gesturing for the other man to step closer and deposit the bag on a small table, the only piece of furniture in the entire room. He ignored Legolas' furious look and took a step closer to the two of them, stopping in front of Aragorn and giving him a mocking look. "Have forgotten how to speak, boy?"

"No," Aragorn slowly shook his head, his forehead furrowed in a deep, thoughtful frown. "I am confused, however. Just _why _is your bloated corpse not floating in the Long Lake?"

Gasur cocked his head to the side and gave the younger man an amused look.  
"So you remember me as well? I am flattered, ranger. I believe we only met very briefly."

"Yes, we did," Aragorn agreed coldly. "It was long enough, however. I do not forget those who threaten my friends."

"It's your own fault if you call elves your friends," the other man retorted, that odd sparkle making a reappearance in his eyes. "It's what brought you to this point."

"No," Legolas shook his head, speaking before Aragorn could open his mouth for a reply. "It was my mistake that brought him here. I should have killed you in that tavern that evening, or should have allowed my friend to do it. It is a mistake which I will gladly correct, though."

"Will you now?" Gasur asked, raising a mocking eyebrow.

"Oh yes," Legolas nodded again, completely and utterly serious. "Does your current employer know about your past, 'Fox'? Do your men know? Do they know that you are nothing but a ruthless murderer who kills for the highest bidder? Do they know that you killed countless people in Lake-town, and that the only reason why you weren't tried and executed is that everyone thought your own employer had killed you? Do they know all that?"

"No," Gasur, who had once been known as the 'Fox', shook his head. "They do not. But, imagine this, elf: They wouldn't care if they did. I do my duty, and I do it well, and that is everything our lady is interested in. And the men…" He made a dismissive gesture. "What they think is inconsequential. They will not challenge me."

"Ruling through fear is what brought on your downfall in Lake-town," Aragorn reminded the other man. "It…"

Before he could finish the sentence, the other man's hand had shot out, grabbed him by the hair and had slammed his head against the wall.

"My methods had nothing to do with it!" the dark haired man hissed at his prisoner as soon as the younger man had pried open his eyes again. "They were not what brought on my downfall! It was you, you and your elven friends!"

He let go and whirled around, looking with wide, insanely sparkling eyes at the blond elf.

"It was you and that silver haired friend of yours! You came in, accused me of having something to do with the ranger's injuries, and smashed the entire tavern! After that, my men thought me weak and my employer incompetent! You took everything from me, everything I had worked so hard for! My own men tried to kill me to please our employer, and do you know whom I blame for that?"

"Since blaming yourself would be a sign of intelligence, I'd guess you blame me," Legolas concluded, sounding rather disinterested and annoyed.

He leaned back against the wall as nonchalantly as he could, tried to ignore the way Aragorn stared at him (namely as if he had just lost his mind) and kept looking at the 'Fox', noting with calm detachment that the man's face was beginning to assume a colour that fitted his name. His every instinct was yelling very loudly at him at the moment, telling him to be silent and hope that this lunatic didn't notice him any further, but, no matter how much he would have liked to do such a thing, he knew that he could not.

It was indeed he whom the 'Fox' blamed for his misfortunes (and he might even be right to a certain degree), which meant that this situation had just become a whole lot more dangerous. The last time they had met, it had been nothing but business in a strange, rather upsetting – not to mention painful – way, but that was over now. This was personal, a means for the man to take his revenge on him, and had comparably little to do with Aragorn, thank the Valar. If he kept the man's attention focused on him, he just might forget about the ranger and leave him alone.

Then again, Legolas added inwardly, looking at the very red, very angry face of the man in front of him, he rather doubted it, especially considering their luck which was almost infamous by now. Just when had anybody around them ever done what they had expected them to? Certainly not in the last year or so.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted by a hand that shot out and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him closer until his face was inches away from the crimson face of the 'Fox'. He was, in fact, close enough so that he could see small veins in the man's eyes burst like some of Mithrandir's fireworks (he hadn't really thought that the man was _this _angry!), and came to the quick, rather uncomfortable realisation that things had just gone from bad to worse.

"You're a quick one," the 'Fox' growled at him, obviously rather close to losing what was left of his self-restraint. He twisted his fingers in the elf's long hair and watched with exceptional satisfaction how pain flashed over his prisoner's pale face. "Yes, I do blame you. And do you know what I intend to do about it?"

"I can guess," Legolas said flatly, working hard to keep his increasing worry off his face. There was a calculating sparkle in the captain's eyes, a sparkle that boded ill for them and had definitely not been there the last time he had seen him. It seemed he had learnt a thing or two in the past few months, and that more than anything else scared him deeply.

"Yes, I am sure about that," the 'Fox' grinned, letting go of the elf's hair and gesturing his lieutenant to come closer which he did, an identical, malicious grin on his face. Not for the first time Legolas asked himself if that man was simply a bad copy of his superior and nothing more. "But I have a more interesting idea. Do you want to hear it?"

"Not really."

"Do you remember what you told me before you allowed that silver haired _elf _to treat me like a rag doll?" the man went on, completely ignoring the fair haired elf's words.

Legolas smiled condescendingly, trying not to look at Aragorn's face whose expression had lost the pity the ranger had obviously felt for his recently deranged friend and had now assumed an expression of anger. The elf shrugged. He had known that Aragorn would realise what he was doing, but as long as the 'Fox' or Gasur or whatever his name may be did not, he didn't even care.  
"Would that be before or after he wiped the floor with you?"

"Somewhere in between," the dark haired man smiled, apparently refusing to be baited.

This wasn't good, Legolas decided, his fear beginning to spiral out of control. The urge to hurt him was plainly visible on the captain's face, and yet he didn't. No, this was _not _good. A moment later Legolas realised what he had just thought, and grinned inwardly. Just when had he started complaining about the fact that people didn't want to hurt him?

"Let me enlighten you, _elf_," the man went on, the smile still firmly attached to his face. Legolas wondered just why every other human he met insisted on emphasising his race's name as if it was a curse or an insult. "You accused me of having hurt your ranger friend here. And then you said 'I really don't like it when that happens to my friends'." He turned back to Aragorn who seemed to be torn between glaring at him and his elven friend and gave the younger man a bright, malicious smile. "Too bad, isn't it?"

"Your quarrel is with me, 'Fox' or whatever your name is," Legolas spoke up, desperate to divert the captain's attention . "Not with him. He was not even there."

"No, he was not," the 'Fox' agreed quietly. "But in the days before, he killed some of my men, don't forget that."

"I'm sure your heart bled for them," Aragorn inserted scathingly, ignoring Legolas' furious look. He knew what the elf was doing, and he did not like it one bit.

"No," the other man shook his head. "But that doesn't matter. You two have ruined my plans and my life's work, and now you will pay for it."

"Let him go," Legolas pleaded softly, trying to calm himself while he watched how the other man positioned himself next to his friend. "He has nothing to do with it."

"Oh, but he has," the 'Fox' disagreed, only half listening to the elf's words while he stepped closer to the dark haired ranger who was regarding them with a mixture of loathing and annoyance in his eyes. "He is your friend. That is enough." He turned back to Legolas, shooting him a grin so full of malicious anticipation that Legolas felt a shiver run over his back. "Besides, do you really think that I care about such trivial matters?"

He didn't give the elven prince a chance to reply and returned his attention to the bound man in front of him, his eyes slowly travelling over his body until they came to rest on his right hand that was chained to the wall at about the height of his shoulder.  
"I know that I am not an expert, but I'd say that looks broken, bound as thickly as it is. What did you do, boy, pinched it in a door?"

Aragorn didn't answer and merely gave him a cold stare, his mind furiously working on a way out of this situation. There was none, however, and he had realised just that when the dark haired captain nodded at the soldier who had taken up position next to him.  
"Hold him."

Legolas' mind seemed to freeze as he realised what the man was intending to do. He dimly heard himself plead with the 'Fox' to stop, but the captain was not listening, his fingers beginning to close around Aragorn's wrist. The young ranger did his best not to show the pain that flared to life inside his wrist as soon as the other man touched it and tried to escape the other soldier's grasp, but he couldn't prevent himself from growing paler and paler with every single inch that the 'Fox' bent the limb upwards, into the direction of the ceiling.

The knitting bones protested sharply against an action such as bending into any direction, and cold sweat appeared on the young ranger's forehead. The 'Fox' stopped for a moment, looking into the younger man's face and intensely studying the silver eyes that had assumed the dark grey colour of a cloudy sky in the evening. He increased the pressure a little bit, watching with relish how the pain in the ranger's eyes intensified, and slowly turned to the elf who had fallen silent now, only staring at him with wide, hateful eyes.

The 'Fox' gave the fair haired elf a smug, cruel smile before he turned back to his other prisoner again, his fingers closing around Aragorn's wrist in a vicelike manner. A second later the hand was wrenched upwards, and with a thoroughly unattractive, crunching noise the bones of the wrist gave way under the pressure.

Aragorn couldn't bite back a cry of pain at having an already broken wrist broken again, something that only caused the other man's smile to widen even more. He kept pushing the wrist upwards until the shackles stopped any further movement, and with a last, wrenching motion that elicited another cry of pain from the ranger he finally let go of his wrist and stepped backwards.

"So, _elf_," he stated lazily, turning around to Legolas who completely ignored him, all his attention fixed on his wounded friend. "He's hurt. What are you going to do now?"

The fair haired elf did not seem to hear what he was saying, his eyes fixed on the pale face of the ranger, and the man sighed loudly.  
"You're consciously trying to make this as little fun as possible, aren't you?"

Legolas looked at him just long enough to give him a look of such fury and contempt that even the 'Fox' was rendered speechless for a few moments before he looked back at his friend, his eyes as cold and hard as stone. The captain nodded at his lieutenant to release the prisoner, and a second later Aragorn slumped in the chains, his eyes tightly closed and his face so pale that Legolas would almost have been able to swear that he could see the blood moving under the translucent skin.

After a few moments of silently urging his friend to open his eyes Legolas finally returned his gaze to the 'Fox', who was standing a little to the right in front of the small table, his brow furrowed in what he probably believed to be a pensive manner.  
"You know," the man began thoughtfully, "there's something missing here. I just don't know what exactly."

Legolas suppressed the perfect answer of 'Your sanity?', knowing that it would most likely only cause the man to hurt Aragorn even more. He might be close to choking on the hatred and anger that was seething inside of him, but he would be damned if he caused his friend any more pain because he'd felt like insulting this madman.

"He's still standing up too straight," the 'Fox' finally said determinedly, as if he had just come to a most important realisation. "No man should be that tall and elf-like; not even a ranger like him. It's not natural, you know?" Legolas merely stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes, and he added, "But never fear, _elf_. I have the perfect remedy for that."

The 'Fox' stepped closer to his human prisoner, one of his fingers thoughtfully tapping against his lower lip. If Aragorn noticed his presence, he did not show it; all of his attention was focused on the burning pain that seemed to envelop his entire right forearm, from fingertips to elbow.

"Well, we could start with the legs," the captain told the younger man confidentially, as if he was proposing a business deal of some sort. "But I don't really like it; it's always so tedious to drag people everywhere. The guards start to complain, eventually." He frowned and shook his head. "No, that would be far too inconvenient. So, what to do?"

Aragorn slowly opened his eyes and blinked slowly, obviously needing some moments until he could focus on the other man's face.  
"Leaving us alone is … not an option, I assume?"

"No," the 'Fox' shook his head, almost friendly. "It isn't." He paused for a moment, the mock frown on his face deepening, before he smiled again and nodded at the younger man in front of him. "I have it! You are standing far too upright, but now I know how to remedy that."

He nodded at his silent lieutenant who stepped closer again, an identical, anticipatory smile on his face. He seemed to know what was expected of him, for the dark haired captain didn't give him any orders and merely kept smiling at the young man in front of him.  
"Just how tall and lordly, pray tell, do you think you'll look if one of your shoulders were to … well, displace itself, so to speak? Or the other as well, perhaps? It might make it a little hard to stand, don't you think?"

Aragorn felt how his blood ran cold, knowing very well how much a dislocated limb could hurt. For a moment, he thought that the 'Fox' might only be testing him, that this was nothing but a particularly tasteless joke, but then he looked into the captain's light brown, utterly soulless eyes and decided that he most likely didn't even know what a joke was. He didn't even have enough time to properly grow afraid of what was awaiting him when he felt how the dark haired captain's silent helper grasped his left shoulder and pinned him to the wall, effectively restraining his movements and trapping him where he stood.

The 'Fox' grasped his other arm, a smug smile on his face that only served to increase the sick feeling that had awoken inside of him.  
"This might hurt a little, ranger."

"No!" Legolas' voice stopped the man in his tracks. "Please, I beg you! Don't do this! You want me, not him! It was my decision to come to Lake-town, it was my responsibility!"

"It's too later for that now, _elf_," the captain answered before turning back to the pale, grim-faced ranger. "You should have thought about that five months ago."

Legolas would gladly have given one of his arms if that had been the price for being given the opportunity to kill this smug, pathetic excuse for a human being. He could only watch helplessly as the 'Fox' grasped his human friend's arm more tightly and, with an easy, practiced movement that suggested that he had done this sort of thing many times in the past, wrenched it to the side and up. The shoulder rotated to the side, more and more until the joint popped out of its socket with an indescribable, hair-raising noise.

It took almost all of the elven prince's strength, but he didn't look away. His eyes remained fixed on Aragorn's face and the agony he could see there, no matter how much he would have liked to close his eyes. He didn't look away when the pain became too much to bear for the young ranger and he cried out, he didn't look away while the 'Fox' cruelly pushed the limb further up until he finally stopped, apparently fearing that his prisoner might pass out otherwise.

What little hope there was in Legolas' chest disintegrated when the 'Fox' let go of his prisoner's right arm and slowly and languidly took a few steps to the side, changing positions with his lieutenant and taking hold of Aragorn's left arm. The young ranger's eyes were closed tightly, his chest heaving while he fought to get enough air, but he didn't move or tried to pull away, either too weak or in too much pain to do anything.

There was nothing he could do, Legolas realised with something very close to desperation. He would do everything to spare his friend this pain, he would even beg the 'Fox', again and as often as he could, but the cold, heartless truth was that that would avail nothing. It would only please the dark haired captain more, but it would most certainly not stop him. All he could do was watch, and that more than anything else made him want to tear the man's heart out of his chest with his bare hands.

The 'Fox' was quite clearly oblivious to his captive's thoughts, and even if he hadn't been, he wouldn't have cared overly much. A huge, cruel smile was on his face while he closed his fingers around the ranger's elbow, waiting for the younger man to open his eyes once more. He didn't have to wait long until the silver eyes opened slowly, mild confusion mixing with the pain that was easily visible there.

The captain's smile widened as he saw comprehension in the darkened grey orbs, followed quickly by fear and renewed pain when he jerked the ranger's arm up and to the side, in an angle he knew to be effective and at the same time very painful. He watched his prisoner's face, enjoying every small sign of pain and every cry of pain. Half a second later the ranger's body went limp as his consciousness finally decided it was better off elsewhere, and with a small, disappointed sigh he let the dislocated limb fall back against the stone wall, hardly giving the slumped figure another look as he turned back to the fair haired elf.

"He's not standing up so straight anymore now, is he?"

Legolas slowly took his eyes off his friend's motionless figure, thanking all the Valar that Aragorn had finally lost consciousness and didn't have to bear the pain of hanging from two dislocated shoulders, and gave the 'Fox' a look so dark and hateful that even Sauron would have been highly impressed.  
"You do realise that I will have to kill you for this, don't you?"

"Of course you will," the 'Fox' smiled indulgently, as if humouring a child or an imbecile. "Now, I am sorry for neglecting you all this time. Where were we?"

Legolas contemplated saying something, but decided against it a moment later. The man would most likely not even understand what he was talking about, stupid as he was. That thought led him to imagining what the captain's face would look like when he strangled him, and he was still picturing that particular sight when the 'Fox' stepped up to him, once again wearing that annoying, overbearing smile that awoke in Legolas the urge to kill him right here and now.

"I always find it a bit draughty in here," the man told him. "I know, I know, that is what the brazier is for, but still. I have a method to warm you up, however. I wanted to try it out on our other elven guest, but, ah well, I'm sure he'll understand." He grinned at the look of surprise the fair haired elf couldn't hide. "You didn't know that, did you? I've had the pleasure of … 'speaking' with him a few times over the last two weeks."

Legolas' thoughts were spinning as fast as the wheels on a cart, and he tried to bring them into some sort of order. What was this man talking about? Was it possible that one of Lord Elrond's delegates had somehow survived? He knew better than to ask any of the humans – and most certainly not the 'Fox' or his silent helper! – but he couldn't stop himself from following that particular train of thought.

As it turned out, however, the 'Fox' knew yet another remedy for that problem. Legolas forced himself not to stiffen as the man slowly drew his knife, but could not suppress the shudder of fear and dread that raced over his back when the dark haired captain used the blade to slice through the fabric of his shirt until there were only shreds left. There must be something magical about his shirts and tunics, Legolas mused, trying very hard to ignore his surroundings. Every other person insisted on cutting them to pieces or ripping them to shreds. He was seriously beginning to think that they wanted to tell him something.

His idle musings were interrupted when the soldier standing behind the 'Fox' turned around, stepping up to his captain. Legolas was about to glare at him when his eyes came to rest on the object in the man's hands, and he felt how his blood froze. It was not necessarily an unusual object, mind you, even though it could look slightly disturbing. Especially when it was red-hot. Especially it was being handed to a madman who had officially proclaimed his intention to kill you.

Legolas would nearly have closed his eyes. And here he had thought this couldn't get any worse.

"You need a fire for that," he advised the man calmly. "You'll look a little strange walking around with a poker. Not that it would change your public image much, but…"

The 'Fox' didn't say anything and merely smiled at him, and a second later the hot metal touched his skin. For a brief moment, Legolas didn't feel anything but calm detachment, but after a second the pain had travelled from his chest to his brain and had flooded his mind. He had just enough time to be amazed at how much such a simple thing hurt before the pain was all there was, and he was so caught up in it that he didn't even notice that the man removed the metal poker after a few more moments.

The dark haired captain took a step backwards, his eyes wandering from the hook in his hands to the angry red burn on the elf's chest.  
"Now that's better, isn't it?"

Legolas took several deep breaths, trying to get the pain under control. He raised his head, his gaze coming to rest on Aragorn's unconscious figure before he slowly looked at the man standing in front of him.  
"You are … talking far too much."

He didn't even have the time to blink before the man closed the distance between them and pressed the poker against his side. This time, Legolas was sure he could actually _hear _how his flesh made contact with the hot metal, but a split second later all thoughts were driven from his mind under the wave of hot, burning pain that swept through his mind. It actually hurt worse now, something he would have thought impossible mere moments ago. It seemed like an eternity until the agony in his side subsided a little as the 'Fox' pulled back, but with every breath he took it somehow seemed to increase until it had almost reached the former level.

The man carefully handed the poker to his lieutenant who promptly pushed it back into the glowing coals of the brazier before he turned back to the elf whose face was now at least as pale as the ranger's.  
"So do you, _elf_. You still haven't learnt to keep your mouth shut. That was your problem the last time as well, if I recall correctly."

Legolas felt the anger seethe inside of him, so strongly that he was able to push the pain in his body aside, at least for a moment.  
"The last time, human, the problem was that you attacked my friends and me. What happened was your fault and no one else's. If you had simply left us alone, nothing would have happened at all. Besides," Legolas arched an eyebrow, "you're a thief and a murderer; you _deserved _it. More than that, you are coward. You told us everything we wanted to know, and we didn't even have to do anything."

"By all means, keep talking," the 'Fox' told him friendly.

Legolas snorted softly.  
"You and I both know that what I say doesn't make any difference at all."

The man shrugged and nodded at his lieutenant, carefully taken the poker from him.  
"You're right. It doesn't."

Legolas gave him an exasperated look, but then his world turned blinding white as the hot metal was pressed to his chest once more. This time the man didn't stop, and soon the elven prince lost all concept of time. His whole body was on fire, and he honestly couldn't say which parts were actually covered with burns and which weren't. There was an odd roaring sound in his ears that he couldn't identify, and just when he was about to lose consciousness he realised that it sounded suspiciously like screams.

Just before he could lose himself in the peaceful darkness, the 'Fox' stepped back and drew back the poker. For a moment, Legolas was rather sure that he would lose consciousness after all, but in the end he found himself regaining some measure of control over his body – or rather what was left of it. Several important bits and parts seemed to be missing, and those which he actually could feel hurt far too much to be of any use at all.

"These things cool down so quickly," the dark haired man commented casually. "Annoying, don't you think?"

The fair haired elf didn't answer and merely stared at him, the angry red wounds on his chest and upper arms in sharp contrast with the whiteness of his skin. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes were wide and dark and full of pain and anger. After a few moments, the 'Fox' averted his eyes, doing his best to mask his reaction by nodding at the silent soldier standing half a step behind him. The man took up the re-heated poker, ready to hand it back to his captain, but the dark haired man had turned back to his prisoner, that smug smile once more on his face.

"Ready for the next round, _elf_?"

Legolas didn't answer for long moment, but then he cocked his head slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he had just realised something very important.  
"You're insane," he told the man softly.

The 'Fox' leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart, his face completely serious as he nodded, his voice little more than a whisper.  
"I know."

**  
****  
****  
**

He had lost track of time. He seriously couldn't remember if he had scratched a furrow into the wall today. He thought he had, but he really wasn't sure anymore. He didn't even know if he had scratched a mark into the wall yesterday, but then again, he had had quite a lot on his mind.

Erestor leaned his head against the wall, suppressing irrational laughter which a part of him commented with an incredulously raised eyebrow. "Quite a lot on his mind" was actually a rather interesting way of calling his "conversations" with that man or whatever he was. He began to grin slowly, unable to suppress the unreasonable mirth. Gasur might look like a man, but he most certainly had a lot of character traits that were frequently to be found in orcs or other creatures of the Dark One. He might be an orc in disguise or something like that.

The bubbling, panicky laughter inside of him faded slowly, leaving only pain and fear and weariness. He was beginning to sound like Glorfindel or one of Elrond's sons, which was not even annoying him anymore. Somewhere between losing his sense of time and beginning to go insane he had stop caring about things like that, which would have scared him only a few days ago. Now he was simply tired, more tired than he could remember being in a long time.

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen the stars. He knew that it couldn't have been longer than maybe three weeks at the most (even though he suspected that it had actually been less), but it felt like an eternity. He couldn't remember what it felt like to feel a cool breeze on his face, or to talk to another sensible being, or to simply sleep peacefully. He was beginning to crack, and he knew that there was nothing he could do against it, nothing at all.

Erestor felt how he began to shiver once more as his hurting body tried to create some warmth, but he hardly felt any discomfort at all. It had been a few days now since he had spoken to Acalith, two or three maybe, and therefore two or three days since Gasur had been given almost free reign. Oh, the man had been careful not to harm him too seriously, probably under orders of his lady, but he had been rather … creative, so to speak.

The dark haired elf felt how he began to grin once more, and could muster neither the energy nor the will to try and fight it. He had never known that someone could wield a hammer quite so precisely, and, to be honest, he hadn't wanted to either. A couple of ribs had now joined his hand bones, and he suspected that Gasur wouldn't stop there..

Erestor's already trembling limbs were beginning to shiver more violently. He was afraid of the dark haired captain, no matter how much he had tried to fight that feeling. Outwardly, he still showed Gasur nothing but contempt and hatred, but inwardly he was beginning to accept that he was frightened. He was not an easy person to scare, at least that was what he had always liked to believe, but he was afraid of Gasur, or rather of what Gasur would come up with next. The man didn't possess mercy, or compassion, or anything resembling a soul, and every time he looked into his light brow eyes and saw nothing he felt how a shiver ran through him, a shiver that was growing stronger every day.

He was about to crack, Erestor realised with calm detachment that was still nothing but a pale shadow of his former state of mind. One more "session" with that smug, sick excuse for a man, and he would tell him everything he wanted to hear. It wasn't so much the pain, it was the darkness and the lack of air and freedom. He simply couldn't stand it anymore, and maybe, just maybe, they would kill him if he told them something that would convince them he had told them what they wanted.

The truly ironic thing was that he couldn't simply choose death himself, as was a gift of the One to his people. He had caught himself trying, yesterday or maybe the day before that, but there was a tiny part of him still clinging to the hope that someone would come for him, that, somehow, Glorfindel and Elrond would find out what was going on. No matter how much time passed and what Gasur did to him, he simply couldn't give up that hope, and he was almost beginning to hate his friends for it.

His mind told him that it was a vain hope, that no one would be coming for him and that Glorfindel or Elrond didn't even know what had happened, but his heart begged to differ. He hadn't realised before that he had such deep, unwavering faith in his friends, or rather in the golden haired elf, but apparently he had. Then again, he told himself wryly, Glorfindel had killed a balrog and got away with it. Getting him out of this cell should be child's play in comparison to that, shouldn't it?

The dark haired elf was torn out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps, footsteps he had heard far too many times in the past, and he slowly raised his head, darkened grey eyes fastening on the closed door. It was too soon, a voice in his head screeched, it was far too soon! He might have lost his sense of time, but he was rather sure that he had not been back much longer than a few hours. They couldn't already be coming back for him, could they?

Erestor used the last bit of his self-control to stop shivering, but when he tried to push back the fear and confusion that filled his heart, he had to admit defeat. He simply didn't possess the strength anymore, something he would never have thought possible. Controlling his emotions was something that had become second nature to him, and not being able to do it anymore was maybe the thing that frightened him most.

No matter what they did, he would tell them nothing that would put Rivendell at risk, he vowed to himself, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the door in front of him. He would make them kill him before he did that. He owed Elrond so much, more than he could ever repay him, and he would never endanger him or his family. Never.

Far sooner than he felt ready in even the remotest sense of the word the door opened, and Erestor felt how trepidation and fear turned into surprise. All he could do was stare as the man whom he identified as Fosul, Gasur's usually so silent lieutenant, stepped to the side with a wide grin on his face, to allow four men to move into the cell.

"We brought you some company, _elf_."

Erestor dimly noticed that the man was sounding exactly like his superior, but the larger part of him was busy staring at the two still bodies which the men dragged into the room and unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. Without another word the men turned and left the cell, apparently more than glad to escape his company. The lieutenant remained where he was for a moment, giving the three beings an emotionless look, before he shrugged and turned around. A moment later the door closed with a thud Erestor didn't even hear, so focused was he on deciding whether or not he had finally lost his mind.

After a few seconds of complete inactivity he finally began to move, deciding that, even if all this _was _an illusion, it would be impolite to let it lie around in a heap. He slowly began to drag the two figures closer, constantly cursing his chains and noticing at the same time that their hands were bound behind their backs with similar, heavy manacles. After long, painful moments he had finally managed to pull them closer, and now that he could look at them more closely, he decided in a split second that he was either indeed insane or that the Valar had a rather disturbing sense of humour.

Still half-believing that this was nothing but an exceptionally vivid delusion, he began to examine his two new cellmates, and with every second that passed he felt how the remaining doubts began to fade. O dear Elbereth, he thought to himself while he used his uninjured hand to carefully touch what looked like a badly dislocated shoulder, Elrond would kill him. And so would Lord Thranduil, now that he thought about it.

After several minutes, he was rather sure that he was in fact not dreaming or hallucinating. These two were Aragorn and Prince Legolas, even though his mind could come up with absolutely no explanation for this. They were in a rather bad shape, too, something that didn't surprise him all that much, either. They would be, wouldn't they?

Deciding that it would take too much energy to try and figure out what they were doing here and what exactly had happened, he used all his strength to try and make it a little more comfortable for them, even though he knew perfectly well that they would most likely be in a lot of pain once they woke up. Besides, he had nothing he could use, no water or blankets or bandages, but he would be damned if he would allow such trivial matters to stop him.

He winced openly when he saw that not only one, but both of the young ranger's shoulder seemed to be dislocated, and his right wrist looked swollen and thoroughly unhealthy. Prince Legolas' upper body was covered with what looked suspiciously like angry red burns – a lot of them – and there was a long, blood-encrusted cut on his throat that already showed the first signs of infection.

Erestor's eyes narrowed, some of his pain and fear turning into seething anger all of the sudden. He didn't need to guess who was responsible for the two young ones' wounds, and if Gasur had been here right now, he might actually have tried something stupid and foolhardy. He shrugged inwardly a moment later when an inner voice told him that this would be extremely foolish. It wasn't as if Glorfindel had a monopoly on doing foolish things.

When he was certain that there was absolutely nothing more he could do for either of them, he leaned back against the wall once more, his eyes slowly wandering from the unconscious figure of the ranger to his fair haired friend.

No, this was not an illusion. Illusions usually didn't look this bloody.

As far as reassurances went, this one wasn't exactly one of the best, but it was enough for him.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend_

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Oh, I blame all of this on Jack. Or my alter ego, take your pick. •g• I didn't enjoy writing this; really, I did not. I couldn't even look at it, which, considering that I had to write it, was rather inconvenient. •sheepish smile• Okay, I'm off now, I have to turn into a quivering mass on the floor. Stay tuned for the next bit, in which someone FINALLY realises that Erestor is not dead and Elrohir is not a happy elf. Neither is Legolas or anybody else, though, with the possible exception of Gasur/the 'Fox'. •g• Reviews are always appreciated, loved and cherished, so: Review? Please?

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Once again, I'm very sorry for not replying to your lovely reviews. Every single one manages to brighten my day, and I really only do this because I have absolutely no time at the moment. •smiles as charmingly as possible• I hope you're not too cross!


	22. The Dreams of Waking Men

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

It's official. I am turning into the kind of author I positively hate: The I-promise-I-will-update-in-a-week-but-won't-since-I'm-busy kind of author. I am aware that that's most likely not a real kind of anything, but still. Even my characters are beginning to give me disgusted looks, and that, dear friends, means quite a lot and is a very bad sign. •sighs•

All right, enough of this. I know that you're probably not really interested in my latest reason for not updating when I bloody well said I would, and I don't even have a good reason. All I can say is that that weekend from hell was really far more exhausting than I had thought. I slept almost non-stop for a few days, and am now waiting for the results. I really have no idea if it went well or not, but I have learnt never again to criticise the food they serve in my university's cafeteria. It's wonderful in comparison to what they expected us to eat a week ago. •shudders•

Besides, Jack went on vacation and accidentally took my alter ego with her. The poor thing (my alter ego, not Jack •g•) needed a week to hitch-hike her way back here, and is still a little traumatised by the whole experience. Something about some trouble with someone's neurosis in Belgium - I didn't ask. •g•

Okay, before I scare you away for good, I'll shut up and post the chapter. At last. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long, and would promise not to let it happen again if I had any credibility left. Anyway, here's chapter 22, which, strangely enough, is not called "Comes Around". Would have been fitting, though, since Aragorn, Legolas and Erestor are STILL in trouble. So are Isál and Elrohir, only they don't know it yet. Lucky them. •g•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 22

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**His head hurt. That in itself wasn't overly surprising – his head seemed to hurt quite a lot lately – but a small part of him insisted that it was most peculiar.

Legolas frowned inwardly. He didn't remember everything that had happened to him in the past few days or so (and had the most distinctive feeling that it was quite a good thing, too), but he was under the impression that a lot of his body parts had a right to hurt right now. No, make that _all _his body parts – except his head, of course. There was absolutely no reason for the damned thing to be hurting, which was of course just the kind of luck for which Aragorn and he were known.

More annoyed than he wanted to admit even to himself, the blond elf tried to remember something that would help him find out just why his skull was doing a rather laudable impersonation of exploding into tiny, ragged pieces. It was a feeling he had got used to over the past few years, but it was still nothing he enjoyed in the slightest. After quite a long time, he had to admit defeat, something he did not easily or gladly. The only way of finding out just what had happened to him would be opening his eyes – yet another thing that would be quite a bad decision, that was something he knew instinctively.

For a second or two, he was not sure whether he should forget about waking up completely and simply go back to sleep (or rather unconsciousness) or struggle to rise to full awareness, but, as almost always when his more sensible and his reckless side were fighting with each other, the voice of reason was silenced and pushed to the side. Yes, he might feel as if a middle-sized mountain had just fallen on top of him, and yes, he might not be sure if he even possessed all his limbs and extremities or where they might be if he didn't, but he didn't intend to let such trivialities stop him from doing something as important as opening his eyes.

It took him quite a long time to even get close to that goal, but in the end sheer mulishness and stubborn determination triumphed over more reasonable instincts like listening to your body's demands and advice. After several eternities Legolas finally managed to open one eye and, when the light that greeted him was dim and as non-threatening as imaginable right now, pried open the second one as well.

For several long moments, he saw nothing except a large, formless mass without defined shapes or contours. Just when he had resigned himself to such a fate and was beginning to come to terms with it, it slowly began to assume more recognisable forms. The first thing Legolas saw was the still rather blurry face of a dark haired elf he knew rather well, a face that was still rather easily recognisable even despite the fact that it was heavily bruised.

"Oh, thank Eru," Legolas whispered, not even realising he was speaking. "Lord Glorfindel was being … highly insufferable."

The dark haired elf arched an eyebrow, something that looked quite unsettling due to the fact that his eye was swollen completely shut.  
"And that is something new?"

"No, not really," Legolas agreed, feeling a strange sense of surrealism. It wasn't everyday that one was speaking with a dead elf, after all. "But trust me, he was being _much _worse than usual."

"I find that hard to believe, young prince," Erestor frowned, suppressing a wince of pain when he moved slightly to stop the younger elf from trying to rise. "No, don't move. You really made him angry, didn't you?"

"Oh, it wasn't us," Legolas shook his head minutely. "He was already angry when we got here and…" He trailed off and sat up abruptly, ignoring the other elf's headshake and pushing away his hand that reached out to stop him. "Aragorn! Where is he?"

Erestor shook his head again and sighed, managing to sound just like a schoolteacher who was disappointed with a pupil.  
"Calm down, _pen-neth_," he told the younger elf, reaching out with his undamaged hand to steady the prince when he was beginning to sway from side to side. "He's right here and as well as can be expected. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't really count that as a good thing, but right now I think it's a bit of positive news."

Legolas wasn't really listening, his eyes darting around the small, dark cell until they came to rest on the motionless body of his friend, lying only a few feet to his left on the floor. The elven prince had thought that he was far too tired and in too much pain to feel much anger, but he was swiftly proven wrong. He only had to take one look at the man's pallor and his very obviously still dislocated arms that some _idiot _had bound behind his back to feel how a surge of intense fury welled up inside of him, growing like a living, tangible thing.

_"Alidhren ion en orch!"_

"That's a rather accurate way of putting it," Erestor agreed, sounding strangely calm even to his own ears. "Even though I have the feeling that it would be an insult even to the _Glamhoth_."

"I will kill him for this," Legolas hissed, ignoring the older elf's words. "By Elbereth and Eru himself, I will kill him for this, with my bare hands if I have to."

"I would gladly lend you mine, young one, but…" Erestor trailed off and raised his shackled hand. "I don't think they would be of much use to you."

Legolas didn't say anything immediately, but his eyes grew quite large when he saw the heavy manacles that bound the councillor's hands to the wall. He seemed to want to reach out, but then he realised that his hands were bound behind his back with similar chains.  
"Gasur?"

The single word was spoken softly, but there was so much hatred and anger in it that even Erestor, who had spent the past two weeks imagining one gruesome death after the other for the dark haired captain, was slightly impressed.

"Of course," he nodded evenly, slowly removing his hand from the young elf's shoulder, finally satisfied that he would not fall flat on his face – at least not in the next ten seconds. He closed his eyes shortly, trying to push away the dark memories that rose inside of him, and made a rather obvious attempt to change the subject. "You should lie back down, young one. Your entire chest is covered with burns, and that cut on your throat doesn't look all that good either. I may not be a healer, but even I recognise an infected wound when I see one."

The younger elf wrinkled his brow, for the first time truly realising the state he was currently in. He slowly looked down at himself, finding that once he actually paid attention to his body's complaints, all the wounds and hurts he had suffered began to demand his attention at once. He barely managed to suppress a groan as the full amount of the pain hit him.

"I'm all right," Legolas protested nonetheless, carefully leaning back against the wall and trying to ignore the way his chained hands protested against such an action. "Or I will be. Eventually."

"Ah yes," Erestor inclined his head. "I think I know what you are talking about. Which should be scaring me a lot more than it actually does."

"I … see," Legolas said slowly, his eyes travelling over the dark haired elf's body. He hurt far too much to be able to really concentrate on anything, but even distracted as he was he could see that Erestor was far from all right. His right hand was in the dark shadows of the corner he was sitting in, almost invisible, but what he had been able to glimpse of the limb was enough to send a cold shiver down his spine. If the 'Fox' had been here right now, he would have strangled him, hands bound or not.

"I rather doubt that, young one," Erestor said quietly, nothing but weariness and maybe even a certain kind of fatalism in his voice. "I truly do. Still," he added, "Tell me what happened to Estel and you. How did you come to be here? Are there others with you? What happened?"

Legolas rested his hurting skull against the cool stone wall, trying to bring some order into his thoughts. It took him some time until he could figure out where and when this whole catastrophe had actually started, but finally he opened his eyes again and exhaled slowly.

"I wish I could give you better news, my lord, but…"

"But…?"

"We brought eighteen warriors with us, all of whom think you are dead. And now they also think that we are dead, maybe along with Elrohir and Captain Isál. We are merely part of a second delegation, sent to find out what happened to you and your escort. A group of humans from Aberon arrived in Rivendell a week ago with the news of your death. Lord Elrond didn't believe their words and sent us to find out what really happened."

"A week," Erestor merely said slowly, speaking each syllable very carefully. "Which means it has been about two weeks since we were attacked. Has it really been that long?"

"Aye, my lord," Legolas nodded sadly. "I am afraid all of Imladris has been mourning your deaths for a week now, including Lord Glorfindel. He is not taking it very well."

"Understandable," the other elf commented absent-mindedly, the fingers of his left hand stroking over his swollen, black-blue eye without him even noticing. "He's getting my share of the paperwork now, I imagine. He hates paperwork."

"He hates other things as well, my lord," Legolas told the other elf softly, a small smile spreading on his face even despite the pain in his body that seemed to increase with every heartbeat. "Losing a friend, for example."

"Yes," Erestor nodded after a moment, a tiny, almost invisible smile appearing on his face. "He would, wouldn't he?"

Legolas would have said something, but the third occupant of their cell chose just this moment to awaken, something that most likely wasn't the wisest course of action as he quickly discovered. Even though Erestor had tried to make him as comfortable as possible over the past few hours, there were limits as to how comfortable a person could be made whose dislocated arms were bound behind his back.

Aragorn didn't even realise that a pain-filled moan escaped his lips and then another, since he was far too busy making sense of the situation he was finding himself in at the moment. His entire upper body hurt as if someone had set it on fire and try as he might, he couldn't remember why. He knew that it wouldn't make the slightest difference if he did and that the pain would remain just the same, but it gave him something else to think about other than the fact that his torso seemed to have been filled with molten lava. He couldn't remember precisely who was responsible for all this, but a part of him decided that it was not really important, either.

After several long moments, he finally managed to concentrate enough to push back the pain that was preying on his strength and willpower, and after some more minutes his eyes actually obeyed his insistent commands and opened slowly. For a few long, confusing heartbeats Aragorn was sure that the pain was doing strange things to his mind, but even after he closed his eyes again for a moment, the sight that greeted him remained just the same. All this could only mean two things, the part of him concluded that was still capable of reasonable thought. One, he had gone insane, or two, he had acquired the ability to see dead people.

In the end, he settled for blinking up owlishly at the face that hovered above his, feeling far too tired and being in too much pain to be intimidated or afraid in any way.

"I … I do not mean to alarm you, my lord, but … you are dead."

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Erestor felt a broad, genuine smile spread over his bruised face.  
"Despite Gasur's best attempts I am not, _pen-neth_. Not yet, anyway."

Aragorn frowned, doing his best to understand what the dead elf in front of him was saying. Should he know this person he was talking about?  
"Gasur?"

"The mad captain," Legolas interjected wryly, trying to ignore the pain and weakness in his body in order to project an aura of confidence. "Gasur. The 'Fox'."

"Oh," the man said faintly. "_Him_."

"You know him?" Erestor asked, trying to feel some kind of surprise or astonishment. Of course they would know him, wouldn't they?

"We've met," Legolas nodded curtly, a dark glint appearing in his eyes. "Last winter, in Esgaroth. We thought he was dead."

He was about to say more, but Aragorn chose this moment to try and move from his position on the floor before one of the elves could stop him, something that turned out to be quite a mistake half a second later. He hadn't moved more than half an inch when his face turned an interesting shade of grey and he fell back, his lips pressed tightly together in unconcealed pain.

"Don't _move_, reckless human," Legolas told the man sternly, trying to hide his concern. Aragorn looked confused and only half-aware of what was going on around him, which even he recognised as a bad sign. Once more he wished fervently that he could use his hands. "I mean it, Estel. Lie still."

"I will, as … soon as the invisible … giant stops beating me over the head … with his … invisible club," the man gasped, his eyes tightly shut and his face now ashen. "He is … beginning to get on my nerves."

The two elves exchanged a quick, worried look. They both knew that the man was in a lot of pain right now – no wonder, with his kind of injuries. Unfortunately, there was no way either of them would be able to relocate his arms, which, even though it offered the young ranger some respite from further pain, was most decidedly not a good thing. Relocating the limbs would cause Aragorn pain, yes, but everybody knew that you did _not _want to leave dislocated limbs in this particular state. Legolas was sure that Lord Elrond or his father's healer, Master Hithrawyn, would be able to explain to him what exactly happened to a joint that remained dislocated for too long, but he didn't really need to hear the medical explanation. He knew that he didn't want to find out, and, more importantly, that he didn't want his friend to find out.

"I am sorry, Estel," he began after a second, trying to sound calm and in control of the situation and failing miserably on both accounts. "There is nothing we can do at the moment. With the way your arms are bound behind your back, there is no way we could relocate them at the moment. Not even if we could actually move our own hands."

"I know," Aragorn nodded faintly. "Don't … don't worry. He wouldn't want to cripple me. Not yet, anyway."

Legolas forced himself to nod, but didn't really harbour any amount of certainty about that. The 'Fox' hadn't exactly been the sanest person he had ever seen the last time they had met, and that hadn't changed in any way either as far as he could see. Judging from their "conversation", the man's sanity had shrunken to new, negligible levels. There was absolutely no way to predict what he would do next, and trying to measure him by normal standards might be a serious mistake.

"Tell us what happened, my lord." The man's soft voice drew Legolas out of his musings. "What ... what happened to you?"

"And why are you still alive, if you'll allow me to ask this question?" Legolas added, sensing that Aragorn was looking for a way to take his mind off the pain that was undoubtedly raging in his body. "As I said earlier, we thought you to be dead."

"There is not much to tell," Erestor shrugged as best as he could, feeling alive for the first time in over two weeks. A part of him was simply enjoying having some company, but another part was screaming at him that Elrond would not be happy once he saw the state his son and guest were in. A third part was feeling weary, suspecting that this was just another of the men's tricks or even an illusion that was doing a particularly good job.

"They killed my escort," he went on in an emotionless way that sounded quite a bit like Glorfindel just before the golden haired elf lost control. "We were ambushed half-way between Aberon and Donrag. Before we even knew what was happening, half of the party was already dead. Within two minutes, I was the only one left."

"Why?" Aragorn asked, his voice barely audible. "Why didn't they … kill you, too?"

"I don't rightly know," Erestor admitted, his forehead wrinkling in mild confusion, as if he had never asked himself that particular question. "They've asked me questions, a lot of them. What your father would do if the two towns went to war, what and with whom exactly we have been trading, things like these. Nothing that makes much sense if you ask me."

"They must be planning something," Legolas interjected softly, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall once more. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that the cold travelled from his head to his hurting chest and to the rest of his body. "Have they given you no indication as to what their intentions are?"

Erestor shook his head sharply.  
"The lady of this place may be many things, among them megalomaniacal, arrogant and insane, but she is not stupid. She did not explain her plans to me."

"Unfortunate," Legolas commented wryly. "It always makes everything much easier."

"I can imagine," the other elf agreed, dividing a concerned glance between the young ranger and the elven prince. Right now, he couldn't really decide which one of them looked paler and weaker. Both would have given a wraith a run for its money. "I have not the slightest idea what they are planning. From what I have managed to piece together, however, I would say that it will happen soon. In three, maybe four days. And one thing I can tell you: It will be something that ruins Aberon's future once and for all."

"I find it hard to care," the elven prince said slowly, opening his eyes once again. "Hurag betrayed us, something which the other council members would have done as well if they'd thought of it first. They'll deserve what they'll get."

"It was Hurag, then," Erestor nodded. "I was wondering who was passing them information. Nobody gets _that _lucky."

"Oh … some people do," Aragorn corrected him. "Just … not us."

"Stop being so negative, Estel," the dark haired elf chided him absent-mindedly. "You sound just like Glorfindel."

"Understandable, isn't it?"

"Quite so," Erestor agreed darkly. "Even I wouldn't object if he would choose to make one of his spectacular appearances somewhere in the near future." He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain in his body and especially his hand, and forced himself to focus on another topic. "I take it that neither of you has any idea how to get out of this town? Or the house, or even the room?"

"Unfortunately, no," Legolas shook his head ever so slightly. "I can find the way back to the courtyard, but that's about it."

Erestor was about to say something, what he wasn't really sure himself yet, but in the moment he opened his mouth to speak the sound of footsteps could be heard, quickly nearing their cell. A few days ago, he might have sat up straighter, but right now he felt that he didn't have the strength to move a single muscle. And besides, what was the point? If he stood up, they would only knock him down again.

Legolas, however, straightened up as soon as he heard the footsteps, and Aragorn, too, stiffened slightly a moment later. The fair haired elf's eyes darted through the small room, looking for something, for anything that could help them out of this situation, and finally, when he realised that there was nothing of that sort, fastened on Erestor's bruised face. For a few seconds the two elves merely looked at each other before Legolas averted his eyes and looked down at the ashen-faced ranger who was lying on the floor next to him.

"Don't worry, Estel," he said in the most comforting voice he could produce at the moment. "It will be all right."

"Of … course," the man nodded almost imperceptibly. "Of course it will be."

Erestor, sitting in the shadows and the darkness of their cell, closed his eyes against the haunting imagines that welled up inside of him at the sound of heavy human footsteps and wished with all his heart that he could believe their words.

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Isál was rather sure that he had never before seen someone who was this close to losing their composure as the dark haired elf who was right now walking through the streets of Aberon with the single-minded determination of a bear that had been woken from hibernation, knew exactly who was to blame for it and where to find him.

Well, now that he really thought about it, it might be possible that he himself hadn't looked much better a week ago when he had heard what had happened, even though he doubted it. A sharp stab of pain went through his heart at that thought, and he hastily wrenched his thoughts away from that particular subject. He still couldn't think of Elvynd without feeling as if someone was taking a hold of his heart and squeezing it in an iron fist, and the pain that never seemed to leave him was still as raw and ever-present as in the beginning.

He had found that if he avoided thinking about his dead friend, the pain became more manageable, but even that course of action offered only a temporary relief from the grief that still threatened to tear his heart asunder. In the small hours of the night, when his concentration was waning along with the strength he needed to fight off the memories, the grief intensified in a manner that was almost enough to make him despair, and only the fact that his men and his lord needed him and he simply _couldn't _lose it now prevented him from being overwhelmed by it all.

And that was why he understood only too well what Elrohir was going through at the moment, why he understood only too well what was going through the older elf's head. Elvynd might not have been his brother, not even his adopted brother, but he had been the closest thing he had ever had to one. No brother could he have loved more than his dark haired, grey-eyed, sometimes too solemn friend, and that was the reason why he could see the same grief and pain he felt in Elrohir's darkened eyes.

Isál felt how the pain once again threatened to choke him, and with an act of sheer willpower he pushed it back and locked it in a distant corner of his mind. He quickly looked around, making sure that his men were still following as well as they could in the narrow, crowded streets, and hurried his steps. He didn't know if Elrohir did it on purpose or not, but the dark haired elf had been anything but co-operative today.

Guarding him or his brothers was a taxing task at the best of times, but today it was simply impossible. The twin was storming through the city in a manner that was impossible to predict, and more than once Isál had already thought he had lost him even despite the six warriors he had brought. Only his men's watchful eyes had prevented just that, and Isál had caught himself cursing his lord's stubbornness more than once, no matter how well he might understand his motives.

Elrohir didn't even seem to notice his companions as he veered sharply to the right, off the main street and into a small alleyway that looked to Isál just like all the other fifty-something alleyways they had already passed by. Once again cursing under his breath, the dark haired captain weaved through the masses of people that were on their way to the markets or attending to their daily business, gestured his men to follow him and hurried after the other elf. He managed to catch up with him after a couple of yards, doing his best not to let his mounting worry show. He understood Elrohir, yes, but this was getting slightly annoying. Not to mention dangerous – just how was he supposed to protect him when he went everywhere he pleased without warning him a few seconds beforehand?

For a few moments, he simply walked alongside the other elf, but after several furtive looks at Elrohir's pale face and the anger and worry that were easily visible in his eyes, he took a deep breath and placed a hand on the other elf's forearm.  
"Elrohir. Where are we going?"

Elrohir needed some time to realise that he was being addressed, and only after several long seconds he finally turned his head and looked at the other elf.  
"To find Hurag, of course. Where did you think we were going?"

Isál shook his head, something that went unnoticed by the other elf. It was hard to tell in the dim light, and the constant rain was obscuring the sight, but he was rather sure that Elrohir didn't see much at the moment.  
"We have been looking for him ever since they managed to put out the fire, my lord. I doubt that we will find him today."

"He owes me the answers to some questions," Elrohir all but hissed, quickly looking at the elven captain and then back at the narrow road. "Most prominently why he wasn't staying in the house yesterday and just what he has done to Estel and Legolas."

"My lord," Isál began carefully, beginning to feel as if he had been caught in some sort of phenomenon that made you go through the same experience over and over again. He was rather sure that he had told Elrohir all this at least a dozen times. "We don't know for sure that he was even involved. There is not trace of them, none at all, and nothing that ties their disappearance to that man."

He didn't point out that it was very well possible that the two younger beings had perished in the fire after all – just because they hadn't found a trace of them it didn't mean that they had escaped the burning building. It was true that they hadn't found their weapons or remains of them, which was most certainly odd, but that didn't mean anything.

Isál didn't have to point these things out, however, since Elrohir was perfectly aware of them. That didn't mean that he would let his opinion be influenced by these implications.

"I don't care," he said slowly and very, very calmly. "I know that he is involved in all this; I feel it in my bones! I will find him, no matter where he is hiding, and then I will _make _him tell me the truth, that I swear by Elbereth's stars!"

"This is his territory," Isál reminded his lord quietly. "His territory, his game, and his rules. If he doesn't want to be found, he will not be found. No one in this town will aid us."

"Then we will have to find him ourselves," Elrohir retorted, absolutely unfazed. He knew that the two of them were not dead and merely in a whole lot of trouble, and he would be damned if he played these humans' stupid games.

"That could be a little hard, my lord," Isál retorted, giving the narrow alley a pointed look.

"He is supposed to have a house around here," Elrohir informed the other elf, his face once again emotionless. "At least according to one of the traders we asked earlier, that is."

Isál was opening his mouth to tell his lord that there was the fair chance that these traders had lied, but then he remembered which men the other elf was talking about and closed it again without saying a word. Elrohir was referring to the traders they had encountered in the traders' guild's guildhalls earlier today. It hadn't been too many since the sun had barely risen, but those whom they had met had left the building completely and thoroughly intimidated. There were not many people in this part of Eriador who were unimpressed when a member of Lord Elrond Half-elven's family lost his or her temper, and there was absolutely no way that one of the men had lied to them.

"Do you really know where you are going, my lord?" he finally asked.

"Of course," Elrohir nodded curtly. "Hurag's house should be right down this alley."

Isál suppressed a small sigh of annoyance, realising that nothing he could say would impress Elrohir even in the slightest, but before he could say just that or something even more uncomplimentary, a small sound caught his attention. For half a second he was unsure what had caused it, but then he identified the noise without the shadow of a doubt: It was the sound of someone pushing off a wall and stepping onto a cobbled street without taking too much care where he was setting his feet.

One moment the eight elves were walking down the narrow street, Elrohir and Isál in front and the rest of the warriors spread out behind them, the next they had come to a sudden, rather abrupt stop. The reason for this froze where he was standing, on the right side of the alley close to a house's front door, and stared with wide eyes at the assortment of different weapons that had appeared out of nowhere and were right now being pointed at the middle of his chest.

Isál narrowed his eyes at the young man who was standing as still as a rabbit that had just caught sight of a group of hungry foxes, and, his innocent appearance notwithstanding, took another step forward, moving half in front of Elrohir which the other elf commented with an annoyed look. The man – no, the boy – who had attracted their attention could be no older than maybe twenty years and was certainly not older than Estel stared back at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but Isál remained cautious. He might look harmless enough with his rather short, curly hair and eyes that were large enough to give a fawn a run for its money, but Isál had seen more than enough innocent- and harmless-looking creatures that had turned out to be not so innocent or harmless after all. Gaerîn, for example.

"Don't move," the dark haired captain ordered curtly, stepping forward and turning his blade slightly so that the tip pointed directly at the young man's throat. "And don't even think about reaching for a weapon."

"I … I…" the young man began, fumbling for words and failing quite spectacularly. "I mean you no harm," he finally said, and added softly after a second, "And I don't even have a weapon on me."

For a few moments, the elves and the young human merely stared at each other, but then Elrohir gestured the others to lower their weapons. The warriors did so, slowly and quite clearly unwillingly, and the dark haired elf turned back to the man in front of him, impatience and a little curiosity on his face.  
"Do we know you, young one?"

"No, you do not, Master Elf," the curly haired youth shook his head and added, slightly heartened by the elf's relatively friendly tone of voice, "And I am not young. I am nearly twenty-one."

Elrohir smiled, a little bit forced. He could well remember the multiple conversations he'd had with Aragorn about this particular topic, and knew better than to tell the human that being nearly twenty-one did not mean that he was old and wise.

"Of course not, Master Human. Twenty is a respectable age." He paused for a moment, giving Isál and the other stony-faced elves a quick look, before he returned his attention to the young man in front of him. "I am sorry, but we are quite busy at the moment. Is there anything we can help you with?"

The boy shook his head, once again looking rather self-conscious.  
"No … no, I don't think so. But there is something I can help _you _with, I believe." Elrohir realised that he must have looked highly doubtful, because the young man added almost instantly, "I am Torel. Son of Toran."

"Toran?" Elrohir repeated, his interest piqued almost instantly. He remembered the tall, fair haired trader, who had assured him earlier today that he didn't know where Hurag was and that he resented any implications that Aberon's inhabitants were in any way responsible for the fire that had killed three townspeople and two of their guests. Strangely enough, Elrohir believed him. "The master trader?"

"Yes," Torel nodded, casting a furtive look over his shoulder. When he couldn't see anyone close-by, he turned back around, but his nervousness seemed to have increased even despite the fact that they were still alone and unobserved. "There is something I have to tell you."

"A message from your father?" the dark haired elf asked, slightly suspicious.

To his surprise, the young man began to chuckle softly, even though there was no real mirth in his eyes or his voice.  
"No," Torel shook his head quickly. "No, most decidedly not. He would kill me if he knew I was here. He is a good man, and only means to protect our city, but with all the things that have been happening lately…" He paused for a moment, lowering his head and taking a deep breath. "I have waited long enough now. Can we … can we talk somewhere else?"

"My lord, I would strongly suggest…" Isál began, but fell silent when Elrohir raised a hand, still not taking his eyes off the man. The elven twin gave Torel a long, searching look and finally slowly shook his head.

"I don't trust you," he told the young man bluntly. "You must not take it personally, however. I do not trust anyone in this town, and especially not your father and his fellow councilmen."

The young man stared at him, apparently only a step away from starting to wring his hands. He looked over his shoulder again, making sure that the heavy rain was still hiding their conversation from eventual onlookers, and obviously plucked up all his remaining courage.  
"I know what they have told you about your dead friends. It's not true."

"We already know that," Isál commented darkly, giving the boy an even darker look. Elrohir glared at him, and the captain fell silent immediately.

"I was there when we found them. I accompanied my father and the others when they left to check if your friends had really left," Torel went on, apparently doing his best to get this conversation over with. "I know that you will probably not believe me anyway, but I swear to you that we had nothing to do with your friends' deaths."

"You are right," Elrohir nodded emotionlessly, giving the young man the _look _for good measure. "I don't believe you. Since we arrived here, we have been lied to and consciously misled by every single human we have spoken to. Now someone sets our house on fire and kills three people and maybe our companions in the process. Give me only one good reason why I should believe _anything _you say."

"Please, you have to listen to me," Torel pleaded, looking rather desperate by now. "We didn't find seven bodies. There were only five, and we looked everywhere."

"What exactly is it you are saying?" Elrohir asked slowly, unconsciously placing a hand on Isál's arm. The younger elf was looking about ready to throw reason and propriety out of the window and try to snap the boy's neck.

"I am saying that my father and the others lied," the young man said bluntly. "We found five dead elves. The other two were nowhere to be found. When we came back to Aberon, my father and the rest of the council decided not to inform your people about this. Nobody else knows about it, not even my uncle and the rest of the delegation we sent to your lord."

"The 'rest of the council' would be Hurag, I presume?" Elrohir asked, doing his best to look unconcerned and as if he had known all this all along. He had suspected something like this, yes, but actually _hearing _it almost caused him to forget even the fact that his younger brother and friend were missing.

Torel nodded, looking quite miserable, and Elrohir smiled grimly.  
"Master Hurag has been quite busy lately, hasn't he?"

Nobody commented on that, not that they would have needed to. The dark haired twin was silent for a few moments, staring sightlessly into the rain, but then he shook his head and ran a hand through his dripping wet hair.  
"I think we really should talk somewhere else, Master Torel. I have a lot of questions that still need to be answered."

All the young man could do was nod, and before he could even blink he was surrounded by a group of elven warriors. Even though they had sheathed their weapons, they looked more than a little dangerous, and Torel caught himself comparing his current situation with that of something tiny that was being cornered by something incomparably bigger. Something with sharp claws, long teeth and a threatening sparkle in its eyes.

A few moments later the group was moving again, this time into the direction of the stables where they had left the rest of their party and their horses. Elrohir checked with a quick look that his companions had pulled the hoods of their cloaks over their heads – he could imagine the kind of trouble the boy would get into if he was seen in their company. He didn't entertain the hope that their conversation would remain secret for long – in a town like Aberon everyone tended to know everything about everybody else – but there was no reason to advertise their meeting to the entire town.

Then again, the younger twin decided, looking over his shoulder once again, he had the feeling that it was already too late for such precautions. His instincts were telling him that they were being observed, and he didn't even need to listen to the small, dark voice in the back of his mind to know that that was not a good thing.

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Erestor had never thought himself to be the kind of person that gave up easily and without a fight. If he were, he wouldn't have lasted a single century as Elrond's chief advisor and would have gone insane a long time ago, namely exactly a year after Glorfindel's return from Mandos' Halls.

Right now he wished he were, however, because even despite the fact that his resolve was weakening by the hour, it was still strong enough to ensure that he clung to this existence with every last bit of strength he had still left. It wasn't much, mind you, and now even less than a few hours ago, but he was firmly resolved that he wouldn't make it even easier for these men by allowing himself to fade. Not that it would matter much in the long run, of course. He was still realistic enough to realise that he would most likely be dead in a week's time one way or the other, most likely by Gasur's hands and therefore in a highly unpleasant manner.

But that didn't matter, he decided firmly, finding that if he only concentrated hard enough on something else, he could almost ignore the pain. Now that Elrond's youngest son and the son of Thranduil were involved in all this, he simply couldn't give up and die, no matter how much he might want to. He needed to get them out of here, somehow, and make sure that they told his lord everything that was going on here. He still didn't know what exactly that was, but he knew enough to know that, if Acalith was allowed to carry out her plans, it would result in the deaths of the majority of Aberon's inhabitants.

And while he may not have a special affinity with the Second People in general and the townspeople of Aberon in particular, he would stand aside and allow them to be killed by the hundreds either.

There were a few problems, of course, as always. One was that he didn't know what the humans were planning. He knew that it, whatever "it" may be, would happen soon, probably too soon for them to try and stop it anyway. Another was that he was stuck here, without hope or any idea how to escape, oh, and yes, Aragorn and Legolas were still not back. He didn't really know how long ago the guards had come to take them away, but he guessed that it had been at least half a day.

Elrond would kill him, Erestor decided once again with a strange sense of detachment. If the young ones ever managed to get out of here and return to Imladris, Elrond would kill him. Which wouldn't be all that bad, now that he thought about it. It would at least rob Glorfindel of the chance to point out that he had managed not only to get himself into trouble, but also innocent bystanders, something for which he had chastised the golden haired elf more times than he could count. Well, maybe they were not really _innocent_ bystanders, but _uninvolved _bystanders.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key that was being turned in the lock of his cell door, and the dark haired elf looked up, rather surprised. He knew that he should have heard someone approach, especially considering the human soldiers' disposition to clumsiness and gracelessness. Then again, he thought darkly to himself, he would most likely not even notice something truly spectacular, like Sauron's reaction to noticing that another one of his fingers was missing.

He didn't have long to dwell on this particular subject – which really was a shame, since it was a rather interesting mental picture – because the door opened quite suddenly and two figures were unceremoniously pushed into the room. Half-blinded from the light that suddenly streamed into the dark room, Erestor needed some time until his eyes had adjusted, and therefore missed the look of complete and utter hatred that one of the two beings that had been thrown into the cell gave the guards outside.

The soldiers, however, seemed to be less than impressed, which was quite understandable if one considered the state said being was in at the moment. Not even an especially fainthearted hobbit would have been overly intimidated by a person who was so bloody and obviously at the end of his rope. The cell door swung shut with its customary, creaking sound, and silence descended over the small space like a heavy, thick blanket.

After a few minutes, one of the two figures began to move slightly and finally struggled to sit up. It took him quite a while to even lift his head, and in the end he settled for propping himself up against the wall against which he had been thrown and pulling his companion with him as best as he could. It obviously wasn't easy since his hands were still bound behind his back, but he finally managed to, with quite a bit of silent cursing.

"Before all this is over," he proclaimed solemnly as he leaned back against the wall behind him, "I will kill Gasur. And this time I will make sure he _stays _dead."

"I would suggest decapitation," Erestor suggest in a similar tone of voice. "It doesn't get much more final and effective than that."

"I will take it into consideration," Legolas nodded, exhaling painfully when the wall behind him pressed against an obviously broken rib. How strange, he thought to himself. He hadn't even noticed that one of his ribs had been injured. "Were we gone long?" he added as an afterthought.

"I don't really know," the other elf admitted. "The guards have changed two times, I believe, so it should be afternoon by now. I am not completely sure, however." He paused for a moment and finally decided that bluntness was the most promising course of action. "What did he do to you this time?"

For a few seconds, he thought that the elven prince wouldn't answer him, but then he did, his voice flat and completely emotionless.  
"He was so kind to relocate Estel's arms."

"Oh," was all the dark haired elf could say. "I see."

There wasn't anything more he could say, and nothing he needed to. Erestor could imagine the manner in which Gasur would have done it, and it was an image he could very well have lived without. He knew how many hours had passed between the time the young man's arms had been dislocated and the time the guards had returned for the two of them, and knew therefore very well how much pain such a treatment would have caused him. And how much pain having to watch such a thing would have caused the son of Thranduil, and how much Gasur and his sick little helpers would have relished the entire thing.

"How is he?" Erestor finally asked in an attempt to end the silence that had fallen once again.

"Not good," Legolas answered curtly, ignoring his body that told him insistently that he himself was anything but well at the moment either. "He didn't lose consciousness during Gasur's ... treatment, stubborn human that he is, so that … man and his cronies beat him until he did."

"You … don't have to talk as if … I'm not here," a soft voice interrupted the elf's words. "I am … perfectly able to speak for myself."

"Of course you are, Strider," Legolas agreed in a tone of voice that was clearly designed to try and upset the man as little as possible.

"As a matter of fact, I am," Aragorn stressed. "I … just can't move. I can speak, however."

"That is reassuring to hear," Erestor smiled thinly, finding that he meant it wholeheartedly. "What about you, young prince? I can't imagine that Gasur was..."

"One-sided in his attentions?" Legolas interjected faintly. "Sane? Reasonable? Of sound mind? Level-headed? Behaving in a manner unlike the most stupid orc?" He grinned weakly and let himself sink back against the wall, making sure not to jar his human friend's body which was draped over one of his legs. "No. He wasn't. He got … angry, after a while."

"Oh, I can imagine that," Erestor agreed. "As he said himself a while ago, he is a _very _angry man. He is also sadistic, cruel and stupid, but mostly very angry. At you, I take it?"

"He thinks Celylith, Estel and I ruined his life," Legolas explained, closing his eyes and turning his head to place the side of his aching face against the soothingly cold wall. "There wasn't much to ruin if you ask me, but apparently he disagrees."

"So you did ruin it?" the dark haired elf asked, feeling an inkling of a strange emotion he hadn't felt for quite some time. Amusement, he realised a moment later.

"It depends on how you define 'ruin'," Aragorn answered for his friend. "In the end, his employer tried to have him killed. So, essentially, yes." He frowned, staring at the dark ceiling for a moment. "But he deserved it."

"Ah," the dark haired elf nodded. "That explains a lot. I think." He fell silent for a moment, trying to remember what he had been talking about earlier, and finally managed to grasp the stray thought that did its best to slip out of reach once more, as many thoughts tended to do lately. "What did he do to you, young one? Tell me."

Legolas shrugged and froze almost instantly as sharp, burning pain stabbed through his torso.  
"Not much. The same thing as earlier."

"He chained you to the wall, burned you with a poker and then hit you with that … hammer, Legolas! And that was before I lost consciousness! Stop pretending otherwise!"

Aragorn glared at his friend with indignant, pain-filled eyes and shook his head, the short burst of anger almost enough to give him the strength to sit up. Only almost, however, and the man fell back against his elven friend with a barely suppressed moan of pain.

"He left for a while shortly after you lost consciousness, Estel," Legolas said in a pacifying manner. "I don't know where he went."

"I believe I can answer that question, _pen-neth_," Erestor informed, farm calmer than he really felt. "But I doubt that you'll like the answer." The two younger beings looked at him expectantly, and so he sighed and added, "He had a meeting with his lady, Acalith. That's why you are back here, and not in that interrogation room of his."

"I don't understand," Aragorn frowned, obviously deeply confused. "What has that to do with anything?"

Erestor didn't answer and merely stared at the door at the far side of the room, and the confused expression on the man's face even deepened. Legolas, however, seemed to realise what Erestor was hinting at only seconds after the other elf had spoken, and a blank, strangely calm expression laid itself over his bruised features.

"When?" He didn't say more, but Erestor understood him nonetheless.

"Tomorrow morning. She was not pleased about this … 'pointless indulgence in unnecessary violence'."

"How do you know this, my lord?" the other elf asked, still looking far too calm and unconcerned for Erestor's taste.

"Gasur told me," Erestor answered simply, in a voice that didn't encourage any further questions. "He paid me a short … 'visit' before he ordered his men to bring you back here."

Legolas merely nodded, and when Aragorn realised that an explanation would not be forthcoming from either of his companions he finally lost his patience that was already worn thin by the constant pain of the past few hours.  
"Could someone please start making sense here?"

"They wish to execute us tomorrow morning, Estel," the fair haired elf explained calmly. "I would think that was their plan from the very beginning. Logically, the 'Fox' is _not _happy about it."

"Oh," Aragorn commented softly, not finding the strength to really care. His whole upper body hurt as fiercely as before, and he almost wished the numbness of his arms that dislocation had brought with it would return. "What about you, my lord?"

"He didn't say anything about me," Erestor shook his head slowly. "It might only be another game of his, of course, but I believe his lady means to keep me alive. This has become … personal for her, I believe. She is not interested in what information I could give her, at least not any longer. She feels that I defy her, and wishes to see that remedied."

"She is mad, isn't she?" Legolas asked, nothing but cool interest in his voice.

"Quite so," Erestor nodded. "Most humans around here are, it would seem." He looked at Legolas intently, all the pain and fear disappearing from his face and leaving behind only calm determination. "You must escape before they can carry out their plans. You must get back to Aberon, warn Elrohir and the others and make sure that whatever it is they are planning does succeed."

"You mean _we _have to escape, my lord, do you not?" the other elf asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Erestor shook his head, biting down on his lip in an attempt to push aside the hopelessness that was once again threatening to overwhelm him. "No, young prince, I mean you and Estel. I will not be able to come with you."

Legolas was about to open his mouth to demand an explanation, but before he could say anything his eyes followed Erestor's pointed look, all the way down the older elf's far too thin body to his left leg. Even in the dim light and with dizziness and pain clouding his vision every once in a while, he could see the other's unnaturally swollen ankle, which had assumed the size of a small boulder by now.

"There is no way I could walk on that ankle, let alone run," Erestor said quietly, utter seriousness lacing his words. "I could barely keep up with you even without this. I would only diminish your chances, and that is something I will not do."

"Erestor," Aragorn began, looking at the dark haired elf unbelievingly, "You can't expect us to simply leave you here!"

"I expect you to do the reasonable thing, Estel," the advisor simply shook his head. "Not to do as I ask would be foolishness, and both you and I know that."

"This discussion is purely academic anyway," Legolas inserted seriously. "Unless you know a way to get out of this cell, that is, my lord?"

"No," Erestor admitted softly. "I do not."

For a moment, it was completely silent, but then Aragorn propped himself up, his face turning white with pain while he studied the heavy door at the other end of the small cell.  
"It looks as if this was once a normal cellar. This is a thick door, yes, but it has a simple lock. I believe I could pick it, if I had the right tools."

He let himself sink back again, slumping half against the wall and half against Legolas, and the fair haired elf smiled wryly, concern still easily audible in his voice.  
"I don't even want to know where you learnt such a disreputable skill, _mellon nín_."

"Oh, I can answer that," Erestor informed him. "The twins and Glorfindel have insisted on teaching it to every one of his house they have taught over the years. They claim it could be useful one day, especially for a ranger."

"I think I have to agree with them for once," Legolas smiled slightly at his ashen-faced human friend. "But even if your hands were not bound as mine are, Estel, you couldn't pick the lock. You can't move your arms more than half an inch. And there is still your wrist to consider."

Aragorn frowned, apparently seeing the elf's point, and no one spoke until Erestor raised his head after a few moments.  
"You can tell me how to do it, young one. I have some manoeuvrability, and the chains are long enough to allow it."

"Your hand, my lord," Legolas simply said, avoiding to look at the mangled appendage.

"I still have the left one," Erestor shrugged, doing his best to ignore the visions of a one-handed life that once again appeared before his mind's eye. "It will not be easy, but I can do it."

"I do not doubt your skill, my lord," Aragorn interjected softly. "I could explain it to you. The problem is that we do not have anything we could use as a tool. I have already looked. There is nothing here that could be of use to us."

Erestor didn't answer and narrowed his eyes as a sudden thought struck him. He only half saw the way the hope on the fair haired prince's face faded before he turned to the side, his left hand groping in the dark until it found the small patch of loose dirt close to the wall. There had been a rectangular tile here once, just like the rest that was covering the floor, but it had most likely broken and disappeared over the years. He didn't have to dig deep until his fingers closed around something long and cold, and a moment later he withdrew his hand again, something like hope blossoming in his heart for the first time since he had been brought here.

"What about this?" he asked, forcing himself to remain as calm as possible. "Would this serve?"

He took a closer look at the scrap of metal he had used for scratching markings into the wall, and found that it was thinner than he remembered. He had been trying to bend it into a long and pointy shape for the first few days, but had given up some time ago, knowing that, even if he did manage to turn the piece of metal into something needle-like, he still wouldn't know how to use it for his advantage.

"It's not completely the right shape, I believe," he added, feeling uncharacteristically hesitant all of the sudden. "But with a bit of time and some luck, I think we could make it work."

The younger beings didn't answer immediately, their eyes fixed on the long scrap of metal as if it was a Silmaril or something equally riveting. After some seconds they looked at each other and then at the dark haired elf, mild incredulity on their pale, bruised faces.

"You, my lord," Aragorn finally said slowly and with the emphatic tone of voice of someone who had just been granted a great revelation, "are a genius."

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TBC...

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_pen-neth - young one  
Alidhren ion en orch - (That) stupid son of an orc!  
Glamhoth - 'The noisy horde', Orcs in general  
mellon nín - my friend_

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Yup. •nods• Never underestimate the value of a random scrap of metal. And a reckless human who knows how to pick locks, and a stubborn elf who reminds everyone of what the important things really are. •shaked head• Talk about the blind leading the visually challenged... •g• Okay, usually I would promise you a chapter in a week, but since you probably wouldn't believe me anyway I won't. I'll try, though. •g• Promise. Oh, and yes, reviews are still loved and cherished. Honestly. So: Reviews? Yes, please!

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**Additional A/N:**

**Deana** - Ah, that's sweet of you to worry about Aragorn's shoulder. Don't worry, they're going to be relocated. Not exactly by Erestor, but still... •hides evil grin• Poor Estel. Oh, and poor Legolas, of course. •g•  
**Ithil-valon** - Well, I've always thought that Legolas had to be at least a little confused when in Aragorn's company. I mean, the twins have experience with weird humans/hobbits/dwarves, but poor Legolas hasn't, Mirkwood being the relatively unhospitable place that it is. Then again, even I am confused, and I'm writing this story. Strange... •g• And I think I will take that as a compliment. I am not completely normal, I never was completely normal and I never will be completely normal. That's a good thing. But I have to admit that my alter ego was responsible for most of the torture. Oh, and there is some fluff in here, but not too much. It's all in the next chapter. Don't worry about the cavalry, btw. They'll get there in time. Not yet, though, that would be too easy. •evil grin• Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Ithiliel Silverquill** - It's nice to hear that you understand. It really takes a bit of time every time, but it's worth it. I love getting reviews! •insane grin• Gosh, I'm starting to sound like Goldmember in Austin Powers III... •g• Don't worry about Gasur, btw. He will die in the end; I'm not yet sure when and how, but in the end he'll die. And I'll have you know that •I• didn't do anything to Erestor. That was Gasur and/or my alter ego. Not me. •innocent smile• And you're quite right, you know. Elrond will of course feel guilty. So will everybody else. It would be no fun otherwise, wouldn't it? •g• No, it wouldn't be. Not even a litle bit. •g•  
**Ainu Laire** - LOL, yes indeed, they are never dead unless you see their bodies. Then again, I never said that he was dead. I just forgot about him for a while. •g• And you're right of course. I should have congratulated Aragorn to his birthday. I wonder why he didn't like my birthday present... •points at creepy-looking Gasur in the corner• Some people are really strange, aren't they? •shakes head•  
**HarryEstel** - Yeah, I had to put them into Erestor's cell. I couldn't resist, it's too much fun. •evil grin• Don't tell me. I need professional help, right now. LOL, you're right, watching Elrond and Thranduil kill Gasur would be very funny. Not for Gasur, but for us. Because most of us are evil. Yes, you too. •g•  
**KLMeri** - Oh, come on. I didn't start this whole Let's-torture-Aragorn-and-Legolas-and-see-what-happens thing. That was someone else, someone whom I really ought to thank. •g• But I have to agree, the War of the Ring was a walk in the park in comparison to this. Poor guy. •g• Elrond and Glorfindel are, in fact, en route to Aberon, but they won't get there any time soon. It really would be too easy, wouldn't it? Thanks a lot for your kind words. The lecture wasn't as bad as I had feared. It wasn't exactly the most wonderful experience ever, but not too bad either. •g•  
**Just Jordy** - I have to admit that I have never dislocated anything, at least not to my knowledge, but I can imagine that it's really painful. I did some research, and I really don't think it's something I ever want to experience. •shudders• It's great to hear that you didn't suspect the 'Fox'. Nobody did, which makes me very happy. Yes, I AM a very strange person. •g•  
**Firniswin** - Who? Me? •innocent look• •I• didn't do anything to Aragorn. That was my alter ego, and, technically speaking, not even her but rather Gasur. And you really should know me better! I would never kill Aragorn, unless I was writing an AU. Which I am not plannning at the moment, so he's safe enough. •g• Don't worry about reviewing. I know how RL can be. I'm also glad to hear that you like Gasur. It's a little bit diconcerting, but nice. I think. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - •g• Meep is good. Don't hate Jack, btw. She's actually quite nice, even if a little strange. •g• Then again, aren't we all? I have to agree, however, Legolas really needs a gag. Or a bit of common sense, whatever is cheaper. •g• The 'Fox' hates Celylith, you're right, but you don't have to worry about him, at least not yet. He's with Elrond, Glorfindel and the others, and still some way away from Aberon. Good for him, I guess. •g•  
**Ellyrianna** - Tsk, tsk, tsk. Bad Ellyrianna. Being too lazy to review ... I know, I shouldn't be talking. I am unable to post on time, which is at least as bad. •g• Great to hear you enjoyed it, though. I'm quite sure Aragorn wouldn't agree, but he's a little strange. We all know that. •g• At the moment, neither Aragorn nor Legolas are in the condition to help anyone, but I'll see what I can do about it in the future. Promise. •g•  
**Ali64** - Oh no, I wouldn't bring Teonvan back to life. I don't bring people back from the dead, at least not if they had an elaborate death scene. That rules out Teonvan, fortunately. •shudder• Gosh, he freaked even me out. •g• So you want me to disembowel the 'Fox', huh? Sounds like a really good idea if you ask me - I will definitely consider it. •g• And thanks for your kind words - I didn't knock 'em dead, I think, neither literally nor figuratively speaking, but still. •g• Thanks a lot for your review!  
**Dae** - Ah, so Gasur's EVIL, huh? I think you're right... And what are you doing? Booking ships for my characters? That's really not nice - I'm having enough trouble keeping them in line as it is! Now that you've given them new hope ... •shakes head sadly and pats large closet• Ah well, let's just say that I had to resort to more drastic measures... LOL, I like the "Well, they kind of died in a fire" bit. I can really imagine Elrohir saying something like that... And Elrond & Co. will find out about it eventually. I think. If I'm in a sufficiently evil mood. •g• Oh, and I am SO sorry for keeping you waiting. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear I didn't. Everything's a litttle bit busy at the moment... Oh, and one other thing: You already are insane. Yup. Definitely. •g•  
**Red Tigress** - Well, technically speaking, the wrist was already broken. It was just ... re-broken? •innocent smile• Is that even a word? I'll have to look that up in a dictionary... I hope I didn't scare you too much with that little torture scene. It's all Jack's fault, she's been bugging me about it for ages now. Yup. All her fault. •evil grin• Thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**Tineryn** - •g• Yes, they ARE in the same cell. I couldn't resist - it's too much fun. Besides, what is it they say, "Misery loves company"? •nods• It's most definitely true in this case. And they do realise that Erestor is not dead. About time, isn't it? •evil grin•  
**Elvingirl3737** - You begin to smile dreamily when you read torture? •shakes head• And I thought I was evil. But nice try there, really. For a moment I really thought you were completely normal. •g• Well, no, maybe not. You ARE reading this, after all.  
**Sadie Elfgirl** - I'm an evil authoress? Really? Thanks! •g• And yes, Erestor will get better eventually. He's a canon character, meaning that I can't kill him. I mean, I could, but I won't. I'm strange that way. And I will have you know that I do not •giggle•. I laugh maniacally, but always in a dignified manner. Thank you. •g• Uhm, and ... no, the person who finds out that Erestor isn't dead isn't Legolas or Aragorn. Nope. No way. I've got to now, sorry... •runs off• •reappears a moment later• Now that I think about it, they really aren't. In a way. •shrugs• Ah well, whatever. Thanks for all your reviews! •huggles•  
**Merethuviel** - •wide-eyed• The "sweet scent of blood, despair, chaos, and confusion", huh? You're beginning to scare me, mate - not even I am saying such things, and I AM insane and evil! •g• Celylith is coming though, you're right, even though he'll need some more chapters to arrive. Ah, come on, don't look at me like that. It would be boring otherwise. •g• Thank you very much for taking the time to review!  
**Maerz** - 3 Auswirkungen, huh? Na, das ist doch gar nicht mal so schlecht fuer den Anfang... •g• Den 'Fox' hatten viele vergessen, oder eher die meisten, was das ganze so schoen macht. Ich liebe es, mal nicht ganz so berechenbar zu sein... •g• Und mach dir mal keine Sorgen ums Gedaechtnis. Das ist ganz normal. Ab 18 geht's eben abwaerts. •mit Schultern zuck• Und natuerlich haben die beiden das verdient. Wer so dumm und ruecksichtslos ist, hat alles verdient. Jawoll. •g• Danke uebringens fuer den Packen Buecher. Zusammen mit dem Packen der schon auf dem Tisch steht, ist das jetzt fast wie der Turm von Pisa. Sehr schick. •g• Und wie ich schon sagte: Tut mir furchtbar leid, ich wollte euch alle nicht so haengen lassen. Hier ist alles momentan etwas hektisch, und ich krieg' irgendwie nichts auf die Reihe. 'Tschuldigung. •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - •g• No, I'm not in Spain at the moment. I wouldn't mind though, especially considering it's about 20 °C there at the moment. •grrr• I'll be in Madrid from October-June 2005-06, if everything goes according to plan. It never does, though, so who knows. I hope I'll like it there, but I really have to learn some more Spanish till then. "Soy una aceituna" is a very nice sentence, but not very useful. •g• Or so I hear.  
**Slayer3 -** Poking the humans' eyes out sounds like a good idea to me. A tiny bit cruel, but otherwise just fine. •g• Oh, and I would have never guessed that you are an obsessed fangirl. If one ignores the maniacal laughter... •g• Thanks a lot for your review!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - Yup, the 'Fox'. And don't look at me like that, I never said he was dead. He didn't have an elaborate death scene or anything of the like. You just •assumed•. You fault. •shrugs• And I know you would have preferred Teonvan - strangely enough, a lot of people would have - but that would have been impossible unless a serious rift in the space-time-continuum suddenly popped up. Timelines can be a b••••, don't tell me. Thanks a lot for your kind words, I am SO glad that seminar-thingy is over! Now if they would only admit that I am intelligent enough for their intents and purposes and gave me the scholarship... •dreamy sigh• Sorry, must have drifted off there for a moment. •g• It's just such a NICE idea.  
**R-chan** - Hmm, so I guess you like torture. Yes? Ah, that's okay. About 95 of the people here do, so you're in good company. •g• Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - Ah, well, yes, I guess you could say that. "Legolas Angst" is as good a term as any. •evil grin• I think 81 sound rather good, but hey, that's just me. I am the person who can only say things like "Soy una aceituna", so what do I know. •shrugs• To answer that question: Not much, and absolutely no Spanish. •g• And you? Getting in trouble? That thought never crossed my mind... •g•  
**TrustingFriendship** - Hmm, let me see, the 'Fox'. That's a rather interesting question, you know, because it's been ages since I've taken a look at THOM. I think he appeared for the first time in ch. 8 and then made a reappearance in chapter 12. I think. And that's about it, he wasn't really a major character. •g• I think you HAVE mentioned that bit about wanting Glorfindel to avenge them; don't worry, I won't forget it. Okay, knowing me, let's just say I'll try not to forget it. That's sounds better. •g•  
**Zinnith** - Oh, don't worry about that. Lots of people are feeling a little blood-thirsty at the moment. •gives readers pointed looks• I wonder why. •g• And I have to compliment you for your reserve. I HATE such people - just what has being gay or lesbian to do with anything? Stupid, moronic fanatics, the whole lot of these people... •shakes head• I am really getting these violent episodes if I only •think• about such people. And give my regards to your frisbee-playing friend. I did some research, and apparently this kind of injury (with spontaneous re-occurence of the injury if you want to call it like that) is very rare. She/He ought to feel special. •g• I will ignore the bit about you, Glorfindel, chocolate and strawberries, though. NOT a mental picture I needed! •g•  
**J-mercuryuk** - Well, that depends. Erestor isn't doing too well at the moment, no, but in comparison to Aragorn and Legolas, he is doing just great. •looks at elf lord's assorted injuries• Hmm, all right, maybe not 'great', but... •g• Hmm, let me see. No, Elrond won't be in this chapter (but I'll try to put him into the next one), but someone will notice something. Kind of. Oh, and don't worry. I don't throw heavy objects. For retaliatory measures, I have Stan. •points at balrog next to her• Meet Stan, my pet balrog. He's sweet, really. •disconcerting smile•  
**Madam Librarian** - Yes, I know what you mean. That's FF-net's favourite method of making everyone's life miserable. There's a system behind all of it, I'm sure about it. No, I'm not paranoid. •looks over her shoulder• Really, I'm not. I'm sorry about making you squirm, even though it was meant to have that effect. Well, maybe not entirely, but close enough. I, too, hope that Erestor will feel a little bit better now that he has company - even though I somehow doubt it - and I am glad you liked the irony. I love irony, but I'm sure you've noticed by now. No, that was not ironic. •g•  
**Marbienl** - •g• You're right, Legolas should know better than assume that Celylith is a reasonable person. Silly elf. •shakes head• He really is a little weird from time to time. And I know, the throat is really a stupid place to be injured. Typical, then, isn't it? •g• And I think the whole dislocating-the-thumb doesn't work with old-fashioned chains. Then again, I'm not completely certain. It might work, I have never tried it. •g• LOL, yes, I think the villains are trying to tell Legolas just that. I mean, I am not a Legolas fan in the strictest sense of the word, but I think even I know what I mean. And sorry, but Erestor won't be relocating Estel's shoulders. From what I've read, it would be impossible with his arms in this position. Lucky him, then. •evil grin•  
**Viggomaniac** - As I said in the A/N, it's not "Comes Around", but that really would have been boring. It would have been a fitting title, though. •g• And I really have to agree, Aragorn and Legolas couldn't keep their mouths shut to save their lives. As we have seen numerous times in the past few years. Really, they can be quite stupid. •g• I have to say, though, that I am quite glad that you guys aren't there to help our heroes. Gasur would be dead in a second, in a most gruesome manner, and not even HE deserves that. No, wait a second, he does, but still. •g•  
**Golden Elf** - •g• Nope, I'm not related to Gollum. I think. It would explain a few things, though... And I never said that the 'Fox' was dead. You merely assumed that he was. That's no fault of mine. •innocent smile• You might be right about Acalith and the athelas, you know. I'm quite sure she hasn't heard of it, and even if she had, she would probably burn the lot of it just for spite. Yeah, she IS a lovely person. •g• LOL, and I really hope that Erestor won't be giggling like that when Glorfindel inevitably finds him. It would ruin his image. •g• To my shame I have to admit that I didn't chose Gasur because it's an anagram for "sugar". I have to admit that that's quite hilarious though. I wish I'd thought of that. •wistful sigh•  
**Elitenschwein** - In Edinburgh bist du, du gemeines Wesen? Ich war da vor 2 1/2 Jahren, und fand es einfach toll! Ich liebe Schottland, und bin jetzt so neidisch, dass ich nie wieder mit dir reden will. Jawoll, das hast du jetzt davon. •schmollt• Na ja, okay, sag' niemals nie, wie sie so schoen sagen. Trotzdem, ich hasse dich. •g• Ich danke dir fuer das Kompliment, btw. Ich hasse Folterszenen, ich probiere immer, sie zu schreiben ohne sie zu lesen, was nie so ganz klappt. Ist schoen zu hoeren, dass sie dann wenigstens effektvoll sind. Die Praesentation war eher ein Auswahlverfahren mit Referat, also alles andere als lustig. Ich krieg irgendwann demnaechst jetzt Bescheid, ob sie mich wollen oder nicht. Ich hoffe doch, dann waer' ich endlich das Baefoegamt los! •Tagtraum• In Madrid bin ich voraussichtlich fuer zwei Semester, also Oktober-Juni. Ist auch ganz gut so, denn im Sommer soll es ja alles andere als toll sein. Ich hab' auch 'ne Tante in Portugal und eine in Sevilla, und noch 'n paar andere Bekannte, also kann ich wenigstens irgendwen besuchen. Das ist doch was. •g• Noch viel Spass in Schottland dann!  
**Barbara Kennedy** - Ha, we just created a new word - plot squirrels. Kind of reminds me of "Scrubs", do you know that series? Didn't the Janitor have a squirrel army? Oookay, WAY off topic here. Sorry. Thanks a lot for the review!

**Okay, once again sorry for keeping you waiting. I would offer you a group hug, but I think you'd tear me limb from limb. And don't look so innocent - I know exactly what you're capable of. •g•**


	23. Nearly, Almost, Close

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

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****A/N: **

I have decided to simply as if I hadn't updated about five days too late. Just pretend it never happened, you see? •wide smile• So, I hope all of you had a great Easter! •ducks daggers, swords, chain saws etc.• No? Jeez, you people can bear a grudge for some time, can't you... •shakes head sadly• But yes, I AM in fact alive. Suffering from a little bout of hay fever, but that's about it.

Well, be that as it may, Easter is actually one of the reasons why I'm late. Every Easter we have a family dinner (or what counts as a family dinner when your parents are divorced), so I spent Saturday and Sunday cooking. I'm not kidding you, I really did. I love to cook, mind you, but after some time it can get really annoying ... I even dreamt about tiny bruschetta attacking me and trying to put me into a casserole! Don't tell me, I need professional help. Or a better way of communicating with my food. Both should work. •g•

Oh, yes, there's another reason for me being late, namely that I'm moving on the 9th. There are some problems with the phone company (they won't be able to get me a DSL connection till end of June! Can you believe that?), so I might not have internet access right away. I don't really know yet, though, so I'll see what I can find out till the next post. Yes, you MAY laugh now. •g•

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****Anyway, here's the next chapter, in which Erestor gets what he wants which of course makes Aragorn and Legolas very unhappy, Elrond finally explains some things, Celylith annoys Elladan, and ... oh yes, Aragorn and Legolas get into trouble. I know, I know, what else is new? •g• **

Have fun and review, please!**  
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Chapter 23

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**Under different circumstances, Erestor might have even admitted that Aragorn was actually quite a good teacher – patient, calm and willing to explain the same thing over and over again if he had to. Right now, however, he was willing to admit no such thing, especially since he was only three things: Annoyed, in pain, and only one step away from strangling the next person who told him something like "don't worry and try again".

Rationally, he knew that to be able to pick a lock you needed a steady hand and a lot of practise and that he possessed neither at the moment, but that didn't make anything any easier. He was losing what was left of his patience and self-control, and losing it fast, and he was dreading the moment it would finally be gone. He really had enough problems already; the last thing he needed now was for the two young ones to witness something like that.

The thin piece of metal with the carefully curved tip moved from its intended position for about the millionth time, and Erestor pulled the probe back with a curse he shouldn't even know and that would most certainly even have caused Glorfindel to blush furiously.  
"Don't say it," he said darkly to no one in particular. "_Don't _say it."

Aragorn regarded him with an impressively pitying look, at least for a man in his position, and gave him something that, under normal circumstances, might have been called a smile.  
"Wait for a moment before trying again," he advised the dark haired elf. "The principle is simple, especially with locks such as these, but you need practise, lots and lots of it. Do not worry and…"

"If you value your life, _pen-neth_, don't say 'try again'," Erestor retorted, forcing his left hand to once again take up the small tool. "And don't even think about saying 'you are doing well', because I know I am not."

"You are," Aragorn assured the dark haired elf, looking for a moment like a bruised, but particularly eager puppy. "I can still vividly remember the first time I tried to pick a lock. It … well, let's just say it didn't go well."

"Why?" Legolas asked, awkwardly peering over his shoulder. He was sitting with his back to Aragorn and the dark haired councillor, allowing Erestor to work on the chains that bound his hands behind him. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," Aragorn almost shrugged, but remembered his recently relocated shoulders just in time and settled for raising both eyebrows. "Well, not really. Let's just say that practising on your own door is a slightly dubious choice, shall we?"

"You locked yourself in," Legolas stated matter-of-factly. "Didn't you?"

"It was an accident," the man protested, consciously avoiding looking at Erestor's attempts to pick the lock of Legolas' chains. He knew that Erestor knew perfectly well that he was watching him, but he was polite and well-bred enough to keep up the pretence that he wasn't. "I would rather not talk about it. The twins teased me for weeks, and Glorfindel was hardly any better."

"I wish I could be more surprised," Erestor commented darkly, cursing the tremors that ran through his left hand from time to time with renewed fierceness.

He knew what he had to do, knew that he needed to find the pin or pins inside the lock and lift them with the makeshift tool he painstakingly had fashioned over the past hour, but actually doing it was not as easy as it sounded. He was beginning to think that Glorfindel had a lot more patience than he had given him credit for; he had to have it if he had taught such a time-consuming, monotonous activity to an energetic youth who hadn't exactly been known for his patience.

"Yes, he can be rather annoying sometimes," Aragorn admitted, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the elf's movements looked more practised and more fluent this time. The picklock, too, was looking as if it was actually being used in a correct way, but the man knew better than to pay it any attention or comment on it. He wasn't about to jinx it now. "But he is a good teacher. One of the best I've ever had."

Erestor was just about to say something incredulous and highly sarcastic when he felt how the pin moved. It really, honestly _moved_, something that was the absolutely last thing he had expected it to do. He didn't even have the time to be completely and thoroughly astonished by the fact that it was actually working when the lock sprang open with a small but audible click.

Legolas looked over his shoulder once more, apparently not completely sure what to make of the sound, and for a moment he wasn't certain who looked more surprised, Aragorn or Erestor. The dark haired elf was staring at the heavy but now open lock, as if expecting it to close again any second now, out of pure malice, but then he removed it as quickly as he could. A second later the crude metal manacles opened without any problems at all, looking a lot as if they were mocking the whole lot of them by suddenly coming off so easily.

Erestor and Aragorn still seemed to be a bit too incredulous to move or say anything, but Legolas had no such problems. In half a second he had shrugged off the chains and turned around, fixing large, impressed silver-blue eyes on the dark haired elf in front of him.  
"Thank you," he simply said.

"You are very welcome, young one," Erestor nodded, still a little incredulous. "The door, if you would be so kind."

"I could help you…?" Legolas offered half-heartedly, at the same time trying to move his hands that had been bound for nearly a day now. He seriously doubted that he could be of any help to anybody in the next twenty minutes or so.

"That won't be necessary," Erestor retorted, trying to infuse his words with some sort of faith into his non-existent abilities to pick a variety of locks. "Keep watch, young prince. It would be most unfortunate if we were disturbed now."

Legolas merely nodded, and without a word and only a concerned look into the pale human's direction he quietly moved over to the thick wooden door. He knelt down next to it, hitting the ground hard, unable to stop his half-involuntary descent, but he didn't even seem to notice it as he placed one cheek against the wood, listening intensely for any sound that might indicate that the guards were coming back for one or more of them.

Erestor gave the suddenly very white-faced elf a last look before he returned his attention to the young man sitting next to him. Aragorn quickly forced his features into a calm, unsurprised façade, as if he had never doubted for a second that Erestor would manage to open the lock. The dark haired elf snorted inwardly. He would be willing to bet that Elrond's son had counted on a lot of things tonight, including getting dragged back to Gasur's little chamber of fun, but most certainly not that he would actually succeed in picking a lock.

"Turn away from me, young one," he told the man, doing his best to hide the concern and anxiety that were coursing through him. He had managed to open one lock, yes, but that didn't mean that he would be able to pick another one. "I need to be able to reach your chains."

Aragorn locked eyes with him for a moment, looking slightly disheartened, but then he complied and turned around. The movement caused his face to turn a unique shade of green-grey which only intensified as soon as the dark haired elf started to work on the heavy manacles. Every little tug travelled from his wrists up his arms and to his shoulders, causing the pain in them to grow even more.

A slightly harder tug caused the man to bite down on his lip in order not to moan or betray his pain in any other way, and he closed his eyes against the throbbing, burning pain in his shoulders and especially his broken wrists. He could have opened the lock in under a minute with his eyes closed, but he'd had a lot of practise. Erestor had no such thing, and the fact that he had managed to open anything at all still astonished him.

It took Erestor at least an eternity until he felt he was making any progress at all, and if he hadn't been so exhausted and simply weary beyond measure, he would most likely have been excited. Praying to the Valar not to allow him to fail now, he carefully moved the tip of the probe downward, trying to lift the pin inside the crude lock.

He tried to ignore the way the young man stiffened as the pressure on his wrists increased once more, only to gasp for air himself when he unconsciously tried to move slightly, jarring his right hand. If the situation hadn't been so dire and he hadn't been so concentrated on what he was doing, he would most likely have fainted on the spot as white-hot pain lanced through his mangled appendage. As if through a slowly solidifying fog he saw how the lock clicked open with a slow, almost lazy motion and fell to the floor a moment later, clattering loudly. He put the sliver of metal down and tugged at the lock until it fell to the floor as well, and a moment later the manacles opened almost soundlessly.

Aragorn didn't react immediately, still trying to master the waves of pain that shot through him at the dark haired elf's actions. He took several deep breaths as soon as the chains opened, doing his best to push aside the agony in his wrists and shoulders, and finally, after what felt like several years, he slowly and carefully pulled his arms forward. No matter how careful he was, pain still exploded inside his body like fireworks, dipping the already dimly-lit room into even greater darkness. After several long moments it receded to more bearable levels, and Aragorn opened his eyes again, blinking against the spots that clouded his vision.

"Thank you, my lord," he said, turning around slowly. "The twins and Glorfindel would be very proud of you."

Erestor looked at him seriously, picking up the small tool and pointing it at the young man in a faintly threatening manner.  
"If one of you ever – _ever _– mentions this to anyone, _especially _your brothers and Glorfindel, I will kill you. My reputation would be ruined forever. Do you understand?"

"But you were very…" Legolas began, turning back to them for a second, but then he saw the look Erestor was giving him and fell silent almost instantly. "Never mind. Your secret is safe with us, my lord."

"Exactly," Aragorn agreed, reached out with his slightly shaking left hand and taking the small probe from Erestor's equally unsteady fingers. "If anyone asks how we escaped, we will tell them that an invisible hobbit sneaked into the cellars and let us out. _If _we escape."

"An invisible hobbit?" Erestor arched an incredulous eyebrow. "That's the most unlikely story I have ever heard, and I have known Glorfindel for a while now."

"Pardon me, my lord, but it's a lot more convincing than you picking a lock."

Erestor had the good grace to merely nod his head, and Aragorn turned around with a small, barely suppressed smile and moved over to the door. He fell to his knees heavily, all his attention fixed on the lock in front of him while he studiously avoided looking at his wrist. There were things he didn't actually need to _see _– he knew perfectly well what it would look like. At least he hoped he did; there was always the possibility that it actually looked worse than even he could imagine, which, considering that he was turning into a rather pessimistic person lately, would not be a good thing.

Even despite the fact that it his whole upper body was on fire and his right hand completely useless, it took him only a little more than a minute to open the lock. Aragorn retracted the makeshift picklock and gave Legolas a quick, searching look who was still kneeling next to him with one of his ears pressed against the door.

The fair haired elf understood what his friend wanted to know and shook his head.  
"There's no one outside."

Aragorn nodded, placed his working hand against the door and gently pushed until he could peer through the thin, almost undetectable gap between the door and the frame. He knew that Legolas would have heard it if a man had been standing guard outside, but he found it greatly reassuring to see with his own eyes that the elf was indeed right. There was no one outside or even in the corridor, and Aragorn couldn't help but shake his head inwardly. He had been rather certain before that these people were no professionals; this merely proved it once more.

He carefully pulled the door almost closed again and turned back to his companions.  
"Legolas is right. There's no one to be seen." He turned large, mildly pleading eyes on the dark haired elf, who was still sitting on the floor, his hands bound by long, thick chains. "What now, my lord?"

"Now you leave," Erestor answered calmly. "Both of you. Leave now, while you still can."

"No," Aragorn shook his head, his voice flat and emotionless. For a moment, he looked so much like his adopted father that it was almost scary. "No, we will not do that. You can't expect us to _leave _you here!"

"Yes, I do," the dark haired elf nodded, unfazed. "I know you, Estel. Even despite the fact that you spent most of your youth trying to convince me otherwise, I know that you are not stupid. What kind of chance would you have if you took me with you?"

"It doesn't matter," Legolas shook his head, answering the other's question. "Gasur will kill you, my lord, or at least try to. We may not be able to return to you in time."

"Yes, that is true," Erestor agreed, doing his best to remain emotionless and not betray the fear that threatened to choke him when he thought of the dark haired, mad-eyed captain. "He might kill me. But he will kill all of us if you do not leave."

"You do not know what you're asking, my lord," Aragorn said quietly, looking at the dark haired elf imploringly. He even forgot about his wounds, so intensely was he concentrating on his father's chief councillor. "You _cannot _know what you're asking. Do you know what Glorfindel will say when he hears that we left you here, in the hands of Gasur and his insane helpers?"

Erestor smiled slightly and nodded.  
"Yes, I actually can imagine. I have another question for you, though: Do you know what he will say when he hears that you didn't leave, even though you had the chance to do so and save us all?"

Aragorn lowered his head helplessly.  
"Something along the lines of 'Why am I surrounded by imbeciles, great Manwë?' Only he would say it more … scathingly."

"And a lot of other things," the councillor nodded again. "Most of them a lot less complimentary than that." He paused, looking at the stony, slightly unbelieving faces of the two younger beings, and finally sighed softly. "I have lived a long life, Estel, a good life. I am not afraid to join my friends and kin in Mandos' Halls. Sometimes, in such situations, sacrifices must be made. You, too, will come to learn that, no matter how much I would wish to spare you that experience."

"I do not want to learn something like that!" the young man retorted heatedly. "And besides, I already know that. I have studied the history of your people, and of mine, and I know that, in war, sacrifices must be made, that some must die for the greater good and in order to protect those who cannot defend themselves. But this is not war, Erestor, and you are not a soldier! I cannot return to my father and Glorfindel and tell them that I left you, that I left their _friend_, to almost certain death! I cannot – and I will not."

"Yes, you will," Erestor simply said. "You will because you know that it is the only course of action that promises some success. You will because you know that Acalith and her cronies must be stopped, and because you know that no one will be able to oppose her unless you warn Aberon. You will because you know that your brother and the others are most likely in danger. And, most importantly, you will because I _ask _you to. Please, save yourself and the prince. I can do nothing to protect you anymore. Please. Go."

Aragorn closed his eyes, frustration welling up inside of him. He should have known that arguing with Erestor would be pointless. The elf wasn't his father's chief advisor for nothing, after all. Erestor knew exactly what he had to say to get what he wanted, and appealing to his sense of duty was most definitely the easiest way to get him to comply with his wishes.

Before he could think of an argument that might be able to make Erestor see that said wishes were nothing but stupidity and/or suicide, he felt Legolas' hand on his shoulder.

"He is right, Aragorn," the fair haired elf said quietly, pained understanding in his eyes that made him look older and far less innocent. "Our only chance is to escape and return with help. We can't help anyone if we are recaptured and executed."

"You have commanded troops in battle," Erestor nodded his head fractionally. "I knew you would understand what I am talking about, young prince. I owe Elrond my life, Estel; I actually owe both your fathers my life. I will not repay them by allowing their sons to die, not while I still draw breath. If I have to die, then so be it."

"Anything worth dying for is certainly worth living for," Aragorn shook his head sharply. "It was you who taught me that, my lord. Don't tell me you changed your mind about it."

"No, _pen-neth_," the dark haired elf smiled softly. "I have not. Sometimes, however, you aren't afforded the luxury of a choice. Please, go now, before someone comes and discovers that you are free."

"Let us at least see to your wounds, my lord," Legolas interjected, sounding at least as frustrated and heavy-hearted as Aragorn felt. "There is no need for you to suffer needlessly."

"And what would it change, young prince?" Erestor asked, strange detachment on his face. "It would take more time than you can afford, and by tomorrow noon it will all be for nothing anyway if I know the dear Captain Gasur at all. Do not concern yourselves with me and _get out of here_. I do not wish to beg you again."

Legolas nodded, pushing aside irrational memories of when he had been forced to let Anardir leave, his friend who had been despairing after the death of his best friend. The golden haired elf had left for the Grey Havens no matter how much he and his other friends had begged him to stay, and even though Legolas knew that sailing to Valinor could by no means be compared with staying here in the hands of Gasur and his men, he couldn't help but be reminded of the pain he had felt then, when he had watched Anardir disappear down the long alley leading from the palace to the Old Forest Road.

He slowly climbed to his feet, ignoring the pain that flared to life in the cuts he had received.  
"May Eru Ilúvatar watch over you, my lord. We will do everything in our power to ensure that your sacrifice is honoured."

Erestor nodded and was about to wish the elven prince luck when Aragorn leaned forward and grasped the dark haired elf's uninjured hand.  
"We will come back for you, Erestor," he said quietly, nothing but firm conviction in his voice. "Have faith in that. I swear it by my parents' memory and the honour of my house. We _will _come back."

"I know," the advisor answered in a similar tone of voice, squeezing the young man's hand. "I know that you will, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. May the Kindler watch over your path and keep you from harm."

Aragorn nodded grimly and finally got to his feet with quite a bit of help from his fair haired friend, and a few moments later the two of them had left, closing the door softly behind them. For a second, Erestor simply stared at the closed door, expecting fear or despair to take a hold of him as it had before. It didn't however; all he felt was a strange sort of peace, a kind of contentment that wouldn't be dimmed by even the worst of the memories he had acquired during his stay here. As long as the two young ones were free, there was hope, tiny and precarious as it might be.

He did not doubt Aragorn's words, Erestor mused some time later, idly playing with the open manacles that lay on the floor. There was too much of Elrond and also his human father in him not to come back – if the half-elf's relatives were one thing, they were stubborn. He would come back, and so would the young prince, even if it was the last thing they ever did.

No, it wasn't a question of whether or not Aragorn and the others would come back for him, it was a question of when. They would come back; it was simply a matter of time.

The only problem, he pondered quietly as he leaned back against the cold wall of his cell, was that time was the one thing he did not have at the moment.

**  
****  
****  
**

Elladan was not a happy elf. He was, in fact, as far away from being a happy elf as possible. No, that wasn't entirely true. He might have been a tiny bit unhappier if Sauron had decided to drop in for dinner, but he rather doubted it.

What would make him overly happy, however, would be if Elrohir were here right now. Elladan smiled maliciously. Oh yes, he could very well imagine it. How wonderful it would feel to wrap his fingers around his braindead twin's neck and squeeze … and squeeze…

"Let me guess," a wry voice behind him commented softly. "Strangling Elrohir?"

Elladan didn't bother turning around, because he would have known who had spoken even if he hadn't recognised his voice. There was only one elf stupid enough to try and talk to him right now, not counting his father and Glorfindel.

"We are spending far too much time together, Celylith," he finally answered gloomily. "You are getting to know me. It's … scary."

"Thank you very much," the silver haired elf smiled softly as he sat down next to the rather glum-looking twin. "Do I want to know why you are sounding so surprised by this fact?"

"You need to ask?" Elladan asked incredulously. "You are a wood-elf. As a general rule, you Silvan Elves don't understand _anything_. If you are beginning to understand _me_, it is high time for me to pack my things and make for Mithlond. As fast as possible."

"You wound me, my lord," Celylith shook his head mournfully.

"Good," Elladan said curtly. "Since I can't wound Elrohir at the moment, I might as well wound someone else."

"An interesting attitude, surely," the other elf nodded, thoughtful. "Slightly psychotic and deeply disturbing, but interesting."

"Very funny, Celylith," the dark haired elf retorted, the scowl on his face belying his words. "Don't you have some place to be? Looking after your horse, sharpening your sword, trying to find some other 'innocent, sweet little creature' to adopt?"

"Now that you mention it, when we pitched camp I saw a large egg that looked absolutely _adorable_. I wonder what might be in there?"

"Why don't you go and find out?" Elladan asked sweetly, with a smile that would have reminded most people of a troll that was about to eat you. "If it's a dragon, be so kind to bring it to me. I'll have to train it to kill my idiot brothers. On sight, if somehow possible."

"Duly noted," Celylith nodded amiably, but his eyes never left the other elf's face. It was silent for a few moments, but then he took a deep breath, deciding that he would not be cowed by the twin's inhospitable behaviour. "Elrohir will be fine. You would know if something was wrong with him."

Elladan closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly.  
"Yes," he finally agreed. "Yes, I would. He is fine – at the moment, that is. But that's not it, and you know that."

"Aye, my lord, I do," Celylith admitted softly. "They have got themselves into such messes before, Elladan. And out of them again."

"Not without help," the other elf protested sharply. "I don't think I need to remind you of Baredlen, do I?" Elladan regretted his sharp words almost instantly as he saw Celylith flinch slightly and lower his head. How could the Silvan elf – or any of them, for that matter – forget what had happened in that town no more than a couple of months ago?

"I have thought about it, you know," Elladan went on, staring intently at the flames of the small campfire in front of him. "Not only a few times, but rather quite often over the past few weeks." He looked at the solemn elf next to him. "Have you ever asked yourself what would have happened to them if that girl wouldn't have come to free them? Or what would have happened if the resistance movement had denied them the help they needed? Or what would have happened if Cendan wouldn't have chosen to betray his lord and fight at our side and would have turned them in instead of keeping their secret? Have you?"

"Too many times, my friend, in too many dark nights," Celylith said, his voice expressionless and almost inaudible. "It is never prudent to think about such things in the small hours of the night, when everything is dark and every possible outcome is paraded in front of your eyes."

"I don't have to think about possible outcomes," the older elf shook his head. "I know what would have happened, just as well as you do. They would have died. Both of them, without us being able to do anything about it. It's as simple as that."

"You can't know that."

"Can't I?" Elladan asked, but there was no spite in his voice. "I don't think I agree. I can."

Realising that there was nothing he could say, at least nothing truthful, Celylith merely lowered his head helplessly. He understood how Elladan felt at the moment, because he himself was almost going insane with worry for his friends. There was no telling what kind of trouble they had got themselves into by now – if he knew them at all, it would involve pain, doom and psychotic madmen out for their blood.

"Yes," he agreed after several moments of tense silence. "Yes, you might be right. But you can't know that something like this will happen to them. For all we know, they might be just fine. Maybe…"

"Please, Celylith," Elladan interrupted him. "Don't. Don't say things you don't believe yourself. How could they be fine with both towns trying to kill them? Aberon's council must have known that at least one member of our delegation was unaccounted for. They must at least have _suspected _what happened. And what did they do? They did nothing!"

"That's not true, young one," a voice behind them interjected darkly. "They sent a delegation with the orders to lie to us. They lured a second delegation to Aberon, possibly in order to kill them, too. I would hardly call that nothing."

The two young elves turned around and inclined their heads when they saw who the newcomer was. Glorfindel nodded back, the look on his face at least as dark as Elladan's mood, and took a step forward, still moving a little bit wobbly and overly careful. The healer in the dark haired twin sighed exasperatedly. He was rather sure that his father had told the golden haired elf at least a dozen times that he shouldn't be walking, and even if he did, that he should at least use a walking stick, but Glorfindel wasn't listening, of course. It didn't surprise anyone, of course. If the elf lord was in this kind of mood, you generally could have more productive arguments with a chair.

"They have betrayed us, and the trust we placed in them," the fair haired elf continued, oblivious to Elladan's thoughts. "And in two days' time, they will pay for it."

"I couldn't agree more," Elladan nodded darkly. "They will wish they had never laid eyes on our delegation, let alone laid hands on them."

"It wasn't Aberon's inhabitants," a calm voice disagreed, and a moment later the twin's father stepped into the circle of light which the brightly burning fire cast. Elrond's long coat swirled behind him as he moved closer to his son and the others, reminding Elladan oddly of the long, stately robes his father usually wore, but it somehow only served to accentuate the fact that he looked just like every other elven warrior with them. Elladan shook his head inwardly. He had got used to his father's scholarly side and had almost forgotten that there was a warrior underneath it all.

"No?" Glorfindel asked, sounding a bit disgruntled and even faintly angry. Elrond had still not told him – or anyone else, as far as he knew – what was going on here, and to say that he was displeased about it would have been the understatement of the _yén_.

"No," Elrond shook his head emotionlessly. "It wasn't. Donrag is responsible. And I have the feeling that the whole thing will not be resolved by talking to them reasonably."

"I am willing to accept that," Glorfindel retorted, apparently highly unimpressed by his lord's words. "So I will kill Donrag's council members after I kill Aberon's. I don't see the problem."

Elladan gave the golden haired elf a dark look that apparently didn't impress him overly much either and looked at his father questioningly.  
"How do you know that, father?"

"I don't," Elrond admitted while he sat down next to his blond friend. "It is an educated guess, based on what Elvynd told us."

"With all due respect, my lord, but I have to agree with Lord Glorfindel," Celylith said softly, bowing his head at the dark haired elf lord. If Glorfindel noticed the note of chagrined regret in the younger elf's voice, he did not comment on it. "It is clear that both towns are involved in this. Who says they are not working together?"

"Oh, they are not," Elrond shook his head decisively. When he saw the very impatient, very confused looks of those around him, he took a deep breath and continued. "Do you remember what Elvynd said? About the coat of arms one of the men was wearing?"

"Yes," Glorfindel nodded, looking intensely at his dark haired friend. "It showed a broad stream with a bridge and a road."

"Exactly," the elf lord agreed. "And of what does that remind you?"

"I have not the slightest…" Elladan began, before he started to frown and narrowed his eyes slightly. "A crossway. Tharbad?"

"Tharbad," Elrond nodded. Glorfindel and Elladan nodded thoughtfully as well, as if the single word was the answer to all their questions – and maybe it was, Celylith thought, annoyed. He, however, didn't have the slightest idea what Lord Elrond was talking about, and was far too anxious and worried to be in any way cagey about it.

"Excuse me, my lords," he began, trying not to sound overly mortified about the fact that Elladan seemed to have been correct earlier, namely when he had said that Silvan Elves didn't understand anything. Right now, he couldn't even have proven him wrong. "But I do not really see your point. What does Tharbad have to do with this? I heard it had been deserted a short while ago."

For the first time in more than two days, Elrond smiled, however thinly.  
"A man would disagree, young one. It has been over forty years now since its inhabitants left it – almost a human lifetime." Celylith merely looked at him with large, slightly exasperated eyes, and with an inward smile Elrond began to explain.

"Tharbad was a powerful trading city, as you well know. Its location was, admittedly, perfect, at the exact point where the East-South Road crosses the river. The Mitheithel it is called north of that point, and the Gwathló to the south of it. It was an ancient city of Men, wealthy and powerful and proud, until the river rose up in sudden wrath and utterly destroyed it."

"I remember that," the silver haired elf said slowly. "It was the year after the Fell Winter, was it not? Half of Eriador was flooded that spring, I believe."

"It was," Elrond nodded. "We didn't really have such … problems in Rivendell," he paused for a moment, looking exceedingly nonchalant all of the sudden, "But most other settlements close to the larger rivers were flooded. Tharbad was hit harder than most, most likely because of all the water that Glanduin carried down from the Misty Mountains, and so there was a great flood, greater than any of the men living close to the city could remember. Tharbad wasn't prepared for something like it and the dams were old and had been neglected for years. Within half an hour most of the city was destroyed, and those of its inhabitants who survived the waters deserted such a cursed place."

"Yes," Celylith said, beginning to suspect that, back in the First Age, the Valar had prohibited the Noldor to return to Valinor because they simply wouldn't shut up or get to the point. The whole Kinslaying-thing had most likely only been an elaborate excuse. "I see. But what exactly has that to do with … well, _anything_?"

The words had barely left his mouth when he realised what he had just said, and, more importantly, to whom. Three eyebrows, two dark ones and a golden one, were raised in mute amusement, and Celylith would almost have closed his eyes to be better able to figure out a way in which he would be able to effectively commit suicide in the next two seconds.

"My lord," he stammered, "I … I didn't mean to…"

"It's all right, young one," Elrond dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. "I understand. To make it short: The crest Elvynd saw, the bridge with the stream and the road, is or rather was the crest of one Tharbad's leading families."

"So whoever is in charge of Donrag is originally from Tharbad," Elladan summed up. "But I have to admit that I don't understand why that means that Donrag and Aberon wouldn't work together."

"Because Aberon isn't a new settlement," Glorfindel interjected, understanding beginning to dawn on his face. "But Donrag is. Or rather, the town of Donrag is. There was a village or something of that sort there before the refugees from Tharbad arrived, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are correct, _mellon nín_," Elrond nodded, appearing almost glad that the others were finally beginning to understand what he had been worrying about these past two days. Glorfindel narrowed his eyes slightly at his half-elven friend. Too bad for Elrond, really; he still hadn't forgiven the other elf completely for not telling him all this sooner.

"Donrag was a very small settlement no more than fifty years ago," Elrond went one. "After the men of Tharbad arrived, it flourished for a few years, but not long enough for them to establish themselves as an important trading post. Aberon was still there and had always been, and it's right next to the ford. And since the discovery of the salt-mine everything has become only worse."

"I understand what you mean, my lord," Celylith nodded slowly, not really knowing whether or not he was less confused now than a few minutes ago. Probably not, he decided a second later. "But why would the ruler of Donrag attack us? Or Aberon? This … trading conflict can't be worth a war!"

Elrond looked at the younger elf, almost pitifully, and decided that this kind of naiveté was very endearing. Wood-elves weren't known for having much contact with humans of any kind, no, but that Celylith would think like this even after everything he had seen and experienced spoke more highly of him than any great deed he could have performed.

"Of course it is worth a war, _pen-neth_," he said tiredly. "And I don't think they are attacking us. We are in the way; no more, no less. They want to harm Aberon, they want to make sure that its inhabitants will never again be an economical threat to them. Since we are trading with Aberon and also appear to be very interested in what is happening in the town, we are … troublesome. Erestor and the others were … troublesome."

"But our reports said nothing about the situation being this dire, father," Elladan agreed with Celylith. "Donrag is suffering, yes, but they are still able to earn enough money to make a living. Why now? I can't really see a reason for this sudden hostility."

"I don't have an answer to that either, my son," the half-elf shook his head. "It could have a multitude of reasons: A new lord, a shift of power in the ruling council, an especially bad winter or the threat of one. Or all of the above."

"Erestor spoke of Donrag's lord sometime," Glorfindel offered quietly. He was looking intently at the other elves, almost as if daring them to tell him that all his hopes were in vain and the dark haired councillor was most likely dead. "He never met him, I believe, but sometimes he mentioned some letters or others. He never indicated that he might be capable of something like this, or even exceedingly aggressive."

"I agree," Elrond nodded. "The current lord of Donrag is a stern and sometimes overly unforgiving man, but he is no tyrant. I have no explanation for it."

"Then he has changed his mind," Elladan concluded darkly. "Or he has been replaced, or is under the influence of someone or something else. What I don't understand, however, is why the townspeople are going along with this. They must know what consequences such a conflict will have!"

"Aberon and Donrag have never got along very well, Elladan," his father told him calmly. "Ever since the fortunes have shifted in Aberon's favour, tempers have been running high and tensions between the two cities have increased. The two cities have no love for each other. And besides," he added, more quietly and bowing his head slightly, "you forget a very important characteristic of the Second People."

"Being pig-headed and generally rather unreasonable?"

"That too," Elrond smiled slightly before he turned serious again. "It is not the people that have lost everything that are willing to support their leaders when they promise them to turn back the clock, when they promise them a return to past, more glorious days. It is those who _fear _to lose something, their prestige or their property or merely their pride. It is the fear of losing what they still possess that drives the people of Donrag, just as it has driven the _Edain _since the earliest days of their existence."

It was silent for a few moments with only Celylith mumbling something about humans being almost as bad as dwarves, until Elladan finally shook his head slightly and sighed.  
"So Erestor may," he shot the stony-faced Glorfindel a cautious look, "still be alive, and if he is, he's most likely a prisoner of Donrag."

"Yes," Celylith agreed softly. "And my prince, Estel, Elrohir and the rest of their party are right in the middle of this extraordinary … mess."

Elrond merely nodded, and it was quiet again until Glorfindel raised his head and fixed steely blue eyes on his friend and lord.  
"So what is your plan, my lord?"

The dark haired elf looked at the other elf lord, a dangerous, angry, almost invisible glint appearing in his eyes as if a candle had been ignited behind the stormy-grey orbs.

"We ride until we get there, force both sides to hand over our people, punish those who dared hurt them and then either make the council members behave like reasonable people or watch how they kill each other. Right now I don't really care which one." He gave Glorfindel an almost reckless grin that made him look a lot younger and very, very dangerous. "Almost elegant in its simplicity, don't you think?"

"Indeed," the golden haired elf agreed with a grin of his own. "I like it. A lot."

"I thought so, my friend," Elrond nodded regally. "We have been travelling hard, so it should be possible for us to get to Aberon in two more days. Maybe even sooner, if the weather doesn't worsen even more."

Elladan grimaced inwardly, trying very much not to think of the constant rain that had plagued their journey. It wasn't really _bad _weather – there were no thunderstorms or anything like that – but, well, it was _raining_. All the time, day and night, and that was beginning to really bother him by now.

"The men would travel even faster, if they only could," Glorfindel told the other elf lord seriously. "They want nothing more than to avenge their comrades. But, as unhappy as I am to say it, I have to advise you against trying to increase the speed of our journey, my lord. While the men would be more than happy to obey, the horses wouldn't be able to keep up an even faster pace. We cannot go any faster without them collapsing underneath us. Still, four days instead of six is more than I had hoped for."

"I know," Elrond nodded, apparently trying not to let his worry and anxiety which he felt for his sons and the others show. "I know that, my friend. We will keep up this pace and let the horses rest for another few hours. If we manage to make the journey in four days, I shall be content."

"We will," Glorfindel assured him quietly. "We will, Elrond. And then we will make these people pay for what they have done."

The three other elves nodded wordlessly, their faces expressionless and their eyes steely, and after a moment the golden haired elf turned his attention to the small fire that was burning in front of him. They were shielded from the worst of the rain by the thick branches of the small copse of trees they had chosen as their camp site, but even despite that fact he could watch as thick raindrops sneaked their way past the wood overhead to evaporate noisily in the hot embers of the fire.

Two days, Glorfindel thought grimly to himself while he stared at the bright flames, two days at the most. That should give him just about enough time to come up with interesting ways to kill the men who had dared lay hands on his men and his friend. One could say what one wanted about him, but he was anything but unimaginative, especially when properly motivated.

If he concentrated hard enough on this, it was almost enough.

**  
****  
****  
**

This wasn't going in any way how it was supposed to. It wasn't all that surprising, considering that they didn't have a plan nor had had one to begin with, but still, that didn't change anything at all.

Legolas shook his head, noticing detachedly that that movement caused the corridor to start spinning crazily around him, and forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings. Under normal circumstances he would have trusted Aragorn to keep watch for both of them, but right now he seriously doubted that the ranger would be able to do anything but stay on his own two feet – and even that only barely. Resolutely shushing the small voice inside his head that began to tell him in no unclear terms that he himself wasn't doing much better, he turned around and nodded at the man behind him, telling him that it was safe to move on.

He waited for Aragorn to catch up with him, and a few seconds later the two of them began to climb the stairs that led up to the main floor of the house. They had been wandering through the long underground passageways for some time now, and not because of Legolas' "Telerin disorientation and lousy sense of direction" as Aragorn had breathlessly called it some minutes ago.

No, that wasn't the problem at all. Legolas knew exactly where they needed to go – namely up. The problem was that there were quite a lot of people still awake and walking through the corridors of the cellars, soldiers, servants and even a pair of young women who looked like handmaidens. The soldiers he could understand, at least when you considered that their lady was apparently a madwoman, but why there was anyone else up at this hour was beyond him. He had always thought that humans needed a lot of sleep.

Legolas sighed inwardly and came to a sudden stop at the top of the stairs, listening intently for any sound that might indicate that someone was aware of their presence. Aragorn stopped next to him, leaning against the doorframe wearily, and Legolas turned back to him after several more moments.  
"We need to hurry. There are people close by."

"Of course," the man nodded tiredly. "There would be, wouldn't there?" He took a deep breath, pushed off the wall, wobbled slightly and finally regained his balance. "Which way?"

Legolas eyed the empty corridors with the dark wooden panelling for a few seconds before he nodded at the passageway to their right.  
"This way. I think."

"You think?"

"I'm sure," the elf corrected himself quickly. "This corridor should lead back to the courtyard." He gave the pale human next to him a searching look. "Can you walk that far?"

"It's my arms that are injured, not my legs, Legolas," Aragorn told the elf, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I can walk."

Legolas didn't even honour that with a response and merely grasped the man's arm, beginning to pull him down the corridor. Aragorn was either too sensible or too exhausted to protest, and soon they had reached the end of the passageway and had turned a corner. Surprisingly enough, there was no one to be seen, and just when Legolas was beginning to think that maybe, just _maybe_, they would be getting out of this house alive, heavy footsteps could be heard that were nearing their position. Quickly.

For a second, the two of them merely stared at each other, wide-eyed and slightly panicky. Legolas managed to react first, and with a quick movement that set his upper body ablaze he grasped his friend's arm more tightly and began to pull him over to the nearest door. They had nearly reached the large wooden door when Aragorn seemed to shake off the short paralysis and shook his head empathically.

"There could be someone in there, Legolas!" he told his friend in a fierce whisper. "We cannot escape and bring back help for Erestor if we barge into someone's room and get caught!"

"There is most certainly someone _out __here_, Estel," the fair haired elf argued rather convincingly. "If we do not hurry, we _will _be caught, right now. Come now, quickly!"

Before the ranger could say anything, Legolas had pushed open the door and pulled him inside. It took the elf only a second to survey the room, and he sighed softly in relief when he saw that it was, thankfully, empty. Sending a prayer of thanks to Elbereth and any other Vala that might be interested, Legolas scanned the room for a potential hiding place, his heart beating loudly in his chest.

A few seconds later he turned slightly to lock eyes with Aragorn who had just finished doing the exact same thing.  
"We're in trouble," was all the young man said flatly, turning even whiter, if such a thing was even possible.

Even though Legolas would have rather bitten off his own tongue than to admit that his friend was right, he had to agree. The room, obviously a study, was square, lavishly furnished in a way that offered not even the tiniest hobbit child any hiding place at all, and, most importantly, a dead end. There was only one other door visible, leading quite clearly to a balcony of some sort, but nothing else. The fair haired elf sighed resignedly. Of all the studies in this house, they had to pick the one without a second exit.

"What kind of person builds a room with only a single door?" he asked disgustedly.

If Aragorn hadn't been filled to equal parts with pain and steadily growing panic, he might have smiled at his friend's words. Right now, however, he could simply think of how badly he had failed Erestor, how he had broken his promise less than an hour after he had given it. That had to be some sort of record, he thought to himself darkly.

"Someone who doesn't want his prisoners to hide themselves in random rooms," the young man answered in a similar tone of voice.

"Ah yes," the elf retorted, once again beginning to suspect that the Valar hated them. Every single one of them, and all the Maiar too. "Human architects can be devious that way."

If the footsteps had not stopped right in front of their door at this very moment, Aragorn might have told Legolas that he shouldn't be the one complaining about something like that, considering that he was living in a large cave. No matter how adamantly the Silvan Elves denied it, they were living in a cave. A huge, airy, light and rather well-decorated cave, but still a cave.

The footsteps, however, did stop in front of their door, and so the two of them simply looked at each other and rushed over to the balcony door without a single word. Legolas reached the door first and pulled it open with a quick movement. Ignoring the pain that had awoken in the raw cuts on his chest and the way his ribs protested against such movements, he waited until Aragorn and had moved past him and closed it again, praying that there wasn't someone else on the balcony. Considering their luck, he wouldn't be overly surprised either.

Luckily for them, there was no one else on the balcony, most likely because it was currently pouring with rain. Legolas wasn't complaining, however, especially since neither of them had had anything to drink for quite some time. Aragorn had stopped next to him, staring wide-eyed at the rain as if it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and the elf quickly reached out and pulled him back towards the wall. The balcony offered quite a good view of Donrag and the large courtyard that belonged to this house, and even though he doubted that a man would be able to see them from below, especially in the rain, he was by no means willing to risk it.

For a few moments it was almost completely silent, with only sound of falling rain to be heard, but then the sound of an opening door could be heard. A few years ago, Legolas might have been surprised at their monumental bad luck – after all, what were the chances of someone not only walking down the same corridor but also choosing to enter the same room? – but not now.

Now he simply listened with an odd sense of fatalism how the door swung open and, by the sound of it, two humans entered the room, one of them treading lighter than the other. He felt Aragorn tense next to him, the man's back pressed tightly against the stone wall behind them, and he automatically reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, fully aware of the fact that it was a gesture meant to comfort him as much as the young man.

Even without elven hearing he would have been able to hear how the door was being closed and the two people began to move into their direction – Valar, even a dwarf would have heard it! – and that was the moment Legolas decided that their situation simply couldn't get any worse.

He was wrong, of course.

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TBC...

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_pen-neth (S.) - young one  
yén (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
edain (S.) - humans, men_

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•shakes head• By now Legolas really should know never to say anything like "Nothing will happen" or "This simply cannot get any worse", shouldn't he? He really never learns... Okay, stay tuned for the next chapter, in which we find out whether or not Aragorn and Legolas manage to get out of Donrag. And if yes, then in what condition. •evil grin• Yup, Jack's back. Oh, and as always, reviews are very much ... ah, screw this, review? Yes, please! •g•

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**Additional A/N:**

**Deana** - I actually think that it's a good thing that Erestor didn't try to relocate Aragorn's arms. It might have made everything only worse; as far as I know, relocating limbs isn't as easy as it sounds. I would most certainly break any arm I tried to relocate. Another reason why I'm not a doctor. •g•  
**Ainu Laire** - •g• So Aragorn is the "Precious", is he? Interesting... •g• Don't worry about that, though. This may be a tiny bit AU-ish, with Aragorn still not having met Arwen and all that, but I would never kill off a canon character. Without very good reason, that is, or unless I am having a very bad day. •evil grin• About the Isildur's Heir thing - I always think that's a little bit tricky, because if Sauron or Saruman ever found out who Aragorn really is, he would be ... well, pretty dead, very soon. And I just can't imagine someone capturing him and not tell their superiors immediately. •shrugs• I'm thinking about it, though. It's a very nice idea, after all. Oh, but: The Nazgûl already HAVE Dol Guldur back. Sauron sent three of them there to re-occupy it in III, 2951. Good for Legolas, I guess. •g•  
**Tineryn** - Hmm, will they escape or not? That's the question, isn't it? And I like your reasons. •g• Erestor really is the type, isn't he? •shakes head• Stupid Noldo. So you're in five choirs and a band? How do you manage to eat and sleep? I'm not in a single choir OR a band and I have no time at all! I hope you managed to figure out whatever you wanted to know - I have been using FF-net for years now and I still don't understand it!  
**HarryEstel** - You're not the only one, you know. Lots of people want to kill the Fox/Gasur, including me. That's actually a very bad thing, considering that I created him... •g• I'll think about doing that, though. Splitting him in half sounds a little excessive, but rather interesting! Thanks for the evil plot bunny! •g•  
**Barbara Kennedy** - You actually killed Legolas? A very young Legolas? Kudos! •evil grin• I never manage to kill main characters. I just can't do it, no matter how much Jack wants me to. •shrugs• I'm just a big softy. •g• Still, I'm very proud of you, if you did indeed kill him, even if only for a while! Well done! And you're right, plot bunnies simply aren't evil enough. Squirrels, though... •shudders• They're mean. Really mean. •g•  
**Just Jordy** - •g• Great to hear that you liked Elrohir. He is a very nice elf, I'll have to admit that. Slightly insane and rather stupid, but still. •g• Ah yes, the cavalry... Let's just say Elrond & Co. will get there eventually. In a few chapter or so, otherwise it would be boring. Wouldn't it? •evil grin•  
**Slayer3** - Oh, I'm sure you have no idea what maniacal laughter is. I don't either. Maniacal laughter? Never heard of it. •g• Thanks for the review!  
**Dae** - So you're murdering elves, are you? Well done! It's very relaxing, isn't it? I try not to do it excessively - it just can't be good for your health, can it? •g• LOL, now that I think about it, it's not a good thing to be a nameless elf around here. They might as well be wearing red shirts. •g• Yes, Aragorn's and Legolas' escape ... the thing is that ... well, they'll die if they don't escape somehow. I just can't see Acalith changing her mind about it. She's a little strange that way. Oh, and stubborn. •g• So you like blood, death, and torture? Really? I would never have guessed, really! •g• And don't worry, Celylith's in this chapter. He's rather annoyed, too. I have no idea why. •g•  
**Zinnith** - Glorfindel is a very clever elf, isn't he? Hiding is most certainly a wise course of action... •g• •sighs• Yes... I guess I am turning into one of those authors. Horrible, I know, but I'm working on it. •g• Oh, I get a golden star? •grabs it• Thanks! That's so sweet! I actually don't know any special web pages, I just search via Google. I always find something, sooner or later. •g• And I have to admit that that reason for not allowing a lesbian couple to come to your dance is definitely one of the weirdest I've ever heard. Are they crazy or what? •g• And of course you can ask me a few questions. No one knows what my real name is anyway, so what's the harm? Don't answer that, actually... Anyway, just send me an email if it's still an issue (you have most likely finished it already). •g•  
**Ithil-valon** - Aha! You're Beling! That explains a lot... •g• Great to hear that you liked the humour. I just can't write a chapter without some stupid jokes. It's a physical impossibility. •g• Thanks a lot for your kind words, btw. I just hate keeping you guys waiting; I hate having to wait for a chapter myself. •g• I really hate it.  
**Elvingirl3737** - Yup. For exactly a second, actually. •g• It's nice to hear that you liked Elrohir. The poor elf isn't having a very good time at the moment, so he needs all the support he can get. •g• And yes, Aragorn and Legolas may escape. Then again, they may not. We'll see, won't we? •evil grin•  
**Ali64** - Oh, I definitely like the disembowelling. It makes my alter ego very happy, which is very important. She can be very annoying - and scary - sometimes. •shudders• Great you liked the humour, btw. Sometimes I really feel very sarcastic - I guess it shows. I need to work on that. •g• Hmm, all very good questions. Let's just say that our intrepid duo is actually going to do the sensible thing for once. I know, I know, they must be ill or something. •g• I am really sorry for not updating sooner. I am pathetic, don't tell me.  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure** - LOL, no, you don't have to worry about Erestor. I don't write AUs, at least not major ones, so he isn't going to get himself killed - I think. Gasur might like to differ, though, so we'll see. •evil grin• Hmm, "Dragons, Dreams and Daring Deeds", huh? That sounds interesting, even to me. And I can't paint anything. Really, I mean it. Not even a house. It's rather sad, really. I like the Fingolfin thing. I always thought that he was stupid to challenge Morgoth, but hey, it was very heroic. Stupid, but brave. •shakes head• Males.  
**Maerz** - Aehm, ja ... mittlerweile hab' ich schon fast Angst, meine Emails abzufragen. Ich HASSE es, es nicht zu schaffen rechtzeitig zu posten, aber irgenwie hat mich mein RL gegen mich verschworen! Und naechstes Semester wird alles noch viel schlimmer... •schuettelt Kopf• Das wird lustig. Dein Urlaub hoert sich allerdings interessant an. Wo findet man solche Sowjet-Gefangenenlager-Nonnen-Betten? In Reisefuehrern? •g• Und wie ich in den A/N sagte, ich bin nicht krank, nur ... beschaeftigt. Und faul. Beides. •g• Danke fuer die Pillen aber. Man kann nie genug Drogen rumliegen haben... Warum zum Geier bist du denn so freuh in die Kirche gegangen? Ich meine, ich gehe nie, aber das ist ja was anderes - aber um 6.00 h morgens? Verrueckt...  
**Madam** **Librarian** - •blinks• Like "the taste of chocolate with no sugar"? Now that's a very interesting way of putting it... Strangely enough, I think I understand what you mean. Sort of. •g• LOL, to be honest, I hadn't even thought of the term "jailbreak". I don't know why, but that term cracks me up. •shrugs• Don't tell me, I'm insane. I know. •g• And yes, even Erestor can be hesitant. Poor little elfsie. •huggles him• And your assumptions are really quite correct, you know. You're beginning to understand how I think! That's disturbing on so many levels - for you, that is. •g• And about Acalith not being present at any torture sessions: I don't really know how to explain this, but she's not actually enjoying watching someone being tortured. She couldn't care less about Erestor and whether he's in pain or not, but she doesn't really like watching, unlike Gasur. She just cares about the end result. •frowns• Am I making any sense? No? I thought so. •g•  
**J-mercuryuk** - Oh, Stan is actually quite nice. •pats balrog's head• He's a big softy, really. Unless he's angered, then he can become a tiny bit ... unreasonable. •g• I have to admit, though, that not ALL torture is Jack's fault. Most of it, maybe, but not all of it. Some of it is my alter ego's. Not mine, of course. •g• Hmm, let me think for a moment. No, I don't think I have ever expressly said what they want from Erestor. It's nothing fancy, mind you, but I'll try to clear it up in the next chapter. Yes, I like being vague. •g• And yes, it's Gasur who's respnsible for the state Erestor's ankle's in at the moment. He's a bad man. Oh, and angry. •g•  
**Viggomaniac** - It's very reassuring that you undestand my problems with RL. It's just really getting annoying at the moment! •glares at it• •wide grin• So you're beginning to shake your fists at random objects and/or people, too? Muhahaha - I'm contagious. •g• And I think Erestor's very happy about some company right now - kind of, like you said. Elrond's going to kill him, though. •g• LOL, so Elrohir and Isál are in the "righteous indignation mode"? That's a rather accurate way of putting it... What? What did you say? •shakes head and grabs the "Kick me, Captain Gasur" signs on his back• Okay, who put this here? Well? Who did this? Honestly people, you should be ashame of yourselves! •g• Don't worry though, even IF they escape, the story won't be over in the near future. I'll still need some chapters ... what about a hundred? No, j/k, but about eight or so. I don't really know yet. About that story idea: It's interesting, surely, and I •might• have thought about it myself, but there's the problem of someone capturing Aragorn, knowing that he is the Heir of Isildur, and not immediately sending a message to Sauron/Saruman. I just can't see that, and if one of the two found out about Aragorn's real identity ... well, let's just say he wouldn't live long. At all. •g•  
**Marbienl** - Oh, you may huggle Erestor if you want to. Go ahead, I'm sure he could use it right about now. •evil grin• And NO, I will NOT write something like that! Take your evil plot bunnies from hell and get away from me! Help, I'm being exposed to plot bunnies! HELP! •g• I like your ... uhm, well, "theory" about them being like magnets. Sounds very interesting. Strange and slightly psychotic, but interesting. •g• Don't worry about Gasur/the Fox, though. He will die. I don't know how and by whose hands, but he will die. Definitely. •evil grin• Oh, and 'it' went well. They've accepted me, isn't that great? Now I can go to Madrid and don't have to worry about money - much, that is. •dreamy sigh•  
**Soulinlondon** - Yeah, well, let's just say I WAS back. For a while. Gosh, I really hate my life sometimes... •g• I won't be leaving for a while yet. The winter term starts in October, so I'll probably leave in September or something like that. Oh, and yes, I'll have to learn Spanish sometime in betweent. I just hope some people speak English, otherwise I might have some serious problems. I will be able to finish this story before I leave, though, don't worry. I won't be starting another long one after it, though. It would be much too stressful, for everyone involved. •g• And Argh! Stop it! No more plot bunnies! Please! I have more than enough now!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - Well, in comparison with Aragorn and Legolas, Erestor is •most certainly• a genius! Then again, about everybody is... •g• You're right, Elrond might kill Erestor. He would have to do it before Glorfindel tries to kill him, though. I don't think our favourite golden haired elf is very happy with Erestor at the moment. •g• Oh, and I know that movie you're talking about, "Lola rennt". I haven't seen it though. I react strangely when a lot of people tell me "You've GOT to see that movie" - I don't see them at all. So I haven't seen "Fight Club", and I haven't seen "The Sixth Sense" either. I'm weird, don't tell me. The next time you see a German movie, ask your teacher to let you watch "Knockin' on Heaven's Door". Yes, that's the actual title. I haven't seen it in a while, but it was one of the few German movies I actually liked. And the guy who plays Manni, Lola's boyfriend, is in it, too. In German, he's hilarious, but I don't even know if there's an English version. Worth checking out, though. I really like that movie. Not as weird as "Run, Lola, Run". Which is not too hard anyway. •g•  
**Ithiliel Silverquill** - Nope, I'm not responsible for my characters. They do whatever the h••• they want, trust me. It's annoying, but true. •g• Don't worry about trying to figure out what I'd do - not even I know what I'm going to do. It's a burden, don't tell me, but at least this way I keep surprising myself. Which can be very nice from time to time. •g• 'Can' being the operative word here. •g•  
**Grumpy** - Yeup, teaching Erestor isn't going to be all that easy. Dead elves can be a tiny bit stubborn, I've heard... •g• And you're right, it really is typical that the twins (and Glorfindel) taught him something like that. I wonder what Elrond would say if he knew... Argh! Off! Get off me, you stupid plot bunny! Help! •g•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - LOL, so you were scaring NYC, were you? Good for you... •g• You really have the same kind of luck Aragorn and Legolas have? Honestly? How come you're still alive then? You must be very resilient! •g•  
**Elitenschwein** - Pff. Ich rede immer noch nicht mit dir. Faehrst einfach so nach Schottland - du denkst doch nicht, dass ich dir dass einfach so verzeihe, oder? Oh nein, so einfach geht das nicht... •g• Ich habe allerdings auch noch ein paar Leute in div. europaeischen Staedten, die ich besuchen muss. Kommt eben so, wenn alle bei Erasmus mitmachen, nech? LOL, du schnurrst also? Interessant... •g• Und nein, ich erzaehl Isál nicht, dass Elvynd noch am Leben ist. Das wuerde alles kaputtmachen. In ein paar Kapiteln vielleicht. Wie waer's mit ... hmm, etwa 20? •g• Und das mit dem "kiss" statt "kill" ist 'ne coole Idee! Ich kann mal gucken, ob ich das irgendwie verwenden kann... ja, ich bin verrueckt. •g• Wer ist das hier nicht.

**Once again, I hope you had/are still having a great Easter! I hope you got lots of chocolate and sweets and things like that!**


	24. Won't Get Fooled Again

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Mhahahaha, I'm back! •maniacal laughter• Uhm, yes, sorry about that, but I'm a little excited. •g• And to be perfectly honest, I'm not really back either. My favourite phone company (•gr•) told me that they are going to reconnect me on the ... 9th of May. Maybe. If they're feeling particularly nice that day. Which is in more than a week. MUCH more than a week. One of these days I will find a way to make them pay for all this, I swear I will.

So, there won't be another update till then, and I wouldn't expect one on the 9th or 10th either. I have to switch to ISDN for a while till they manage to find a free DSL port for me - which, considering that they hate me, might take a while. You know how it is, as soon as you change something, and most importantly something connected with internet in any way, the whole system crashes. I promise to do my best, but my computer can be rather uncooperative sometimes. And besides, I might actually die from shock as soon as I'm able to go online again. Who knows. •g•

Be that as it may, I still want to thank you for your patience. Even though I got a few (Okay, okay. More than a few. •g•) "Update-already-or-I-will-leave-you-to-your-own-insane-OCs"-emails - which are more than understandable - I really have to admit that I'm surprised that there weren't more. Thank you very much for all your understanding, encouraging emails and/or reviews, it's great to hear that most of you haven't lost all interest in this insane little story.

Okay, let's return to the story. Where were we before my phone company decided that it would be funny to cut me off from the rest of the world ... ah yes, THERE. All right, so Legolas and Aragorn find out that yes, things can ALWAYS get worse and Elrohir and Isál have a little talk and decide that they're not very happy at the moment. Oh, and Legolas also finds out that going anywhere with Aragorn is a rather dubious choice, if not a rather suicidal one. No, it's not a pretty sight. •evil grin•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 24 

Legolas didn't like being wrong. Few people did as far as he knew, but he suspected he liked it less than most. Of course he didn't like being wrong – he was his father's son, after all, and if anyone hated being wrong with a passion that nearly equalled his loathing for the dwarven race, it was Thranduil of Mirkwood.

As much as he disliked being proven incorrect, it was something he could usually rather well live with. He might not like to admit it publicly (or even to his friends), but he could bear it – normally, that was. Normally, it didn't do him any harm either, which once again proved that he was not in a normal situation. Legolas leaned his head against the cold, wet wall behind him, barely resisting the urge to beat his skull against it as hard as he could. He was the Prince of Mirkwood, for Eru's sake, was over 2500 years old, had fought and destroyed more creatures of the Dark Lord than most people would ever see, had survived being dragged to the Lonely Mountain to negotiate with _dwarves _not too long ago, not to mention nearly every kind of attempted murder you could think of. All this should have taught him some very simple things, among them never to say anything like "What could possibly happen?" or "This simply cannot get any worse."

And still, he had thought just that (in his experience, thinking was just as bad as actually saying it), most likely in a fit of temporary insanity, and the consequences hadn't waited even a second to present themselves. He sighed inwardly. If there was one sentence the Valar hated, it was "This simply cannot get any worse."

And they made you pay for saying it, or even thinking it. Every single time.

Most of the time by proving to you that yes, it could get worse. For example by making sure that the room you were hiding in was the one apparently belonging to the insane madman who was after your blood and wanted nothing more than to kill you slowly and painfully. It wasn't a very nice thing to do to poor, innocent elves or men, but if he hadn't been so intensely annoyed, he would have been even a little bit understanding. He supposed the Valar got bored, too. And besides, he should have known better, shouldn't he?

The reason for his intense displeasure was right now stopping only a few feet away from the balcony door, something that caused Legolas to breathe more easily for a moment. For a few seconds, he had really believed that Gasur would open the door and step onto the balcony, even despite the rain. The wood-elf shuddered openly. If the captain had done that, things would have gone really ugly very, very quickly.

But, praised be Eru Ilúvatar, Gasur had stopped and stayed inside, something that didn't surprise the two beings outside on the balcony. It was pouring with rain, after all, and even though the dark-haired captain was a soulless maniac, he was apparently polite enough not to drag his companion out into something that could only be called a violent storm – especially when you considered that said companion was quite obviously a woman. Legolas paused his inner musings long enough to give Aragorn a surprised, thoroughly confused look. What kind of female, regardless of her race, would be willing to accompany Gasur anywhere without screaming for help at the top of her lungs?

Aragorn looked back at him with a similar look on his face that spoke of more than a little bit of grim determination. He was standing slightly hunched over and was unconsciously cradling his right forearm to his chest, but Legolas didn't have to be a mind-reader to know what the man was thinking – namely that, if it became necessary, he would throw caution in the wind, rush into room and defend the honour of any poor serving girl that might have caught Gasur's fancy. Legolas resisted the urge to sigh once more, knowing that every deep breath would inevitably cause his damaged ribs to start complaining once more. He didn't really know if he should praise or hit the man for that particular honourable, but highly unwise sentiment.

Luckily for them, they didn't have to rush anywhere to save someone's honour, since Gasur's companion seemed to be with him voluntarily, something that once again caused Legolas to ask himself when exactly the world had gone crazy and how he could have missed such an important event. He caught himself praying to each and every Vala he could think of at the moment that Gasur, madman that he was, at least possessed some form of modesty and sense of propriety and kept his liaisons where they belonged, namely in the bedchambers. There were things he would rather not see. Or hear. Or even think about, especially when they involved Gasur and a female.

To his immense relief his silent prayer was answered, and after several moments of near-silence a woman's voice could be heard, sounding a little out of breath but very determined.  
"Not here, Gasur. Someone might come in."

"No one would dare," Gasur replied, and Legolas could almost see the derisive frown that was surely firmly attached to the man's face. "No one would dare enter your study or any other of your rooms without permission."

So he had been wrong, the elven prince decided detachedly. It wasn't Gasur's room, it was his female companion's, which was rather strange now that he thought about it. They hadn't had enough time to take a good look at the room, but it hadn't looked like the room of a service girl or even a handmaiden.

"That is of no consequence," the woman's cool voice countered. "I said not here. You know that I do not like having to repeat myself."

Gasur chuckled, sounding more amused and fascinated than put off or angry, and didn't answer immediately, and Legolas decided that something was very, very wrong here. Why was Gasur, who was not exactly a very patient and tolerant person as far as he knew, allowing someone, and a woman at that, to talk to him in such a way without losing his temper in a most spectacular way?

There was an answer to that question looming at the edges of his mind, an answer that was so unlikely that he once again began to suspect that either he or the world had gone mad, but before he could ponder this any further, his train of thought was interrupted by Gasur's smug voice. He was really, really beginning to hate that man's voice, Legolas decided darkly. "Yes, my Lady Acalith. I do know that. Forgive me."

The answer that had seemed so unlikely only a few moments ago suddenly became reality, and Legolas turned slightly to look at his dripping wet, shivering human friend who looked as astonished as he felt.'His lady!' the ranger mouthed incredulously.

Legolas simply shrugged painfully and returned his attention to the room next to them. He was entering a stage where nothing surprised him anymore. This house, this town, no, this entire region was completely and utterly mad.

"Don't act like that in front of me," the woman answered curtly, annoyance quite easily audible in her voice. "I am not Salir, and you will gain nothing if you try to rile me."

"I am not trying to rile Salir," Gasur protested, but even to Legolas who couldn't see his face his words sounded not at all genuine. "He tries to rile me, my lady."

"Stop," Acalith simply said, sounding rather tired for a moment. "I have no desire to hear about this again. If you two cannot resolve your petty rivalries, I will do it for you by executing one of you and banishing the other."

"But," the man retorted in what he probably thought to be a beguiling voice, "who would keep you company then?"

The woman laughed, a lilting sound that was almost elvish in its merriment, but there was no real amusement in her voice when she said, sounding rather serious,  
"I would manage, Gasur. Do not believe yourself untouchable. I do not reward cockiness, neither in my captains nor in my … confidants."

"Yes, my lady," Gasur retorted. It might have been the fact that he was cold and wet, that his whole upper body hurt horribly, that he knew that he was only a few feet away from a madman who wanted to kill him or the fact that they were leaving an ally behind in this Valar-forsaken place, but to Legolas the man didn't sound overly contrite or repentant.

Acalith, however, seemed to be satisfied with this answer, and for another moment it was silent except for the sound of heavily falling rain. Legolas had just reached the conclusion that he definitely didn't want to speculate on what exactly the two of them were doing when Gasur could be heard again, sounding torn between contentment and repressed anger.

"I hate to bring this up now, my lady, but … about the prisoners…"

"No, Captain," Acalith's voice interrupted the man sharply. "We will not discuss this. Not now, not later this evening, and not at any other point in the near future. I have no use for the two of them, not while the dear Lord Erestor is our … guest."

"If you have no use for them, then you will surely not mind if I kill them in my own time," Gasur retorted. Even despite the fact that it was rather disconcerting to hear the captain talk about Aragorn and him like that, Legolas wished for a moment that he could see the man's face. He could almost hear how Gasur ground his teeth in frustration.

"As I have explained before, I do mind," Acalith answered, now definitely annoyed. "I have important plans that are to be carried out – by you and your men, Captain. I cannot have it that you are distracted by this … obsession with the two of them. Unless you can give me a very good reason – and I mean a _very _good reason! – the elf and the ranger will die tomorrow morning. There is nothing more to be said about it."

"The boy's a ranger," Gasur told the young woman, apparently as a last attempt to change his lady's mind. "He could tell us a lot about the elves of the north. And the easiest way to him is through the elf."

"I don't need a ranger anymore. I couldn't care less about him," Acalith retorted coolly.

Legolas forced himself to remain reasonably calm, fighting the anger that threatened to choke him. He would have liked to kill these two humans for the way they talked about his friend, as if he was nothing more than a soulless object.

"Now that we have the elf lord's advisor, he is no longer needed. There is nothing a ranger could tell me that the chief advisor of the Lord of Rivendell could not tell me." She paused for a moment, apparently thinking about her previous words. "Speaking of which: Just why isn't he already telling me everything I want to know?"

"Well, my lady," Gasur began, sounding rather uncomfortable, "He is … stubborn. Very stubborn. Every time I think I have him, he finds the strength to hold on, somehow. It is … intriguing, to say the least. But," he added smugly, "Everyone has their breaking point. It is only a matter of time until I find his."

"I will take your word for it," the woman's voice assured him coldly. "Trust me, Gasur, I will take your word for it. Have you spoken with Captain Reod?"

"Yes, my lady," Gasur answered sourly. "I have. He bade me tell you that the preparations are proceeding as planned. Everything is going according to plan, and if the weather remains as it is, we should be able to finish our work in time."

"Excellent," Acalith replied, and Legolas didn't have to use any imagination at all to hear the smile on her lips. "None of our men has been detected?"

"No," her captain said. "None of them. Our … friend in Aberon is keeping his word, and the guards are either posted elsewhere or are looking the other way."

"So it would seem," the woman agreed softly. "I want answers, Gasur," she added firmly a moment later. "We have only a few more days left. I have been patient until now, but even my patience has limits. We need to know what the Lord of Rivendell knows, and what his plans are. We need to know who his friends are in Aberon, and who is working with the Elves. I don't trust this Hurag, I don't trust him at all. He may very well be playing both sides against the middle, and if he is, I want to know about it so he can be taught the full … magnitude of his errors."

"And so you shall, my lady. But I do not believe he would do something as stupid as that. Hurag is not stupid enough to risk his life in such a fashion. He's a coward."

"Of course he is," Acalith replied scathingly. "He's from Aberon, after all. But as much as I think you are right, I need proof, and I can only get it if you break the elf. Understood?"

"Yes, my lady. It will be done."

"Good," the woman retorted, sounding reassured enough. He couldn't blame her, Legolas decided darkly. If a sadistic lunatic such as the 'Fox' repeatedly assured you he would break someone, and in that particular tone of voice, you tended to believe him. "Then nothing will stand in the way of my revenge, and the inhabitants of Aberon will meet their ancestors in a most … befitting way."

It was silent again for a few moments, but then Legolas could clearly hear how the woman – Acalith, he reminded himself absent-mindedly – took two steps forward, into the direction of the balcony door. A second later the door handle began to move slightly as it was being pressed down from the inside, and Legolas felt how his heart froze inside his chest. This was not fair, a voice inside of him raved silently, it wasn't fair, not when they were so close to escaping, it wasn't fair, not fair, not fair…

"Will you join me on the balcony, Captain?" the woman's voice could be heard again. "I love the rain, especially at night."

Next to him, Aragorn raised his head and looked at him, an expression on his face that was to equal parts incredulous and hysterically amused. 'This is _just _our kind of luck,' his wide eyes told Legolas silently. 'Isn't it?' Oh yes, it was, Legolas thought, a part of him being already busy imagining what would happen in a few moments. There was always the possibility that Gasur would faint from shock upon seeing them, even though he wouldn't count on it. It would be a nice surprise though – he seriously doubted that he would stand a chance against Gasur at the moment, and Aragorn looked as if a strong breeze would knock him over. Besides, there was still the woman to consider. She didn't sound as if she would be scared by a little blood or violence. Amidst panicking, Legolas found the time to smile grimly. If he assessed her character correctly, she would most likely rather kill them herself than scream in fear or anything of the like.

"If you wish to, I shall, my lady," Gasur's voice interrupted his frantic train of thought. "But I can think of … better ways to spend our time. Watching the rain can be so … uneventful."

"Better ways?" the woman's voice repeated.

"Much better ways," Gasur assured her in a seductive tone of voice. It was something that made Legolas feel definitely sick to his stomach. "We would have to go somewhere else, though. Somewhere more private."

"Is that so?" Acalith's voice was barely more than a whisper. "Then, by all means, lead the way, Captain."

"As my lady commands," the man answered smoothly, and a second later the door leading to the corridor opened and closed, signalling their departure.

For a few moments neither of the two beings on the balcony moved, but then Aragorn finally pushed slightly off the wall, careful not to expose himself to eventual onlookers in the courtyard below, and gave his elven friend a long look, faint amusement shimmering in his silver eyes that were still filled with pain, anger and more than a little bit of fear.  
"If I didn't want to kill the 'Fox' so badly, I would actually kiss him now."

"You would have to get in line," Legolas answered faintly, leaning his head against the wall behind him, trying to alleviate the headache that was once again making an appearance. "That was close, Estel. Too close."

"I know," the man only nodded silently. "Valar, what if he had agreed?"

"We'd be dead, or, worse, recaptured," Legolas answered, being in too much pain and too exhausted to be in any way subtle about it. "We were lucky."

"That still remains to be seen," Aragorn said darkly, turning around and preparing to open the balcony door with his left hand. "Out of the door and then left, correct?"

"I think so," Legolas agreed. "We do not have time to hesitate anyway. If I'm not very much mistaken, the sun will rise soon. They'll have a changing of the guards then, and our escape will be discovered. We need to be as far away from here as possible when that happens."

"You'll hear no objections from me," the young ranger retorted wryly. "Let's get to the courtyard, find some sort of weapon and horses and get away from here. I do not intend to keep Erestor waiting any longer than absolutely necessary."

Legolas nodded, frowning as he tried to remember what exactly the woman had said a few minutes ago. His head was beginning to ring slightly as the adrenaline that was keeping him going abated somewhat, and he needed most of his concentration to stay on his feet and follow Aragorn over to the door. It was a brief moment of inattention that cost them dearly only a second later.

In the exact moment Aragorn opened the door, Legolas realised that there was something wrong. He was still opening his mouth to tell his friend just that when it became clear that it was far too late now, since the door opened to reveal two guards, who were standing in the hallway, looking about as surprised as Legolas felt.

Maybe it was due to his injuries or to the fact that he still couldn't believe that the Valar would do something like this to them, _twice_, but Legolas could simply stare at the two soldiers in front of him, who returned his gaze with a look of equal astonishment. Then, however, they began to reach for their weapons as instinct or training replaced surprise, and even as Legolas felt his body move to do something, _anything _that would ensure Aragorn and he wouldn't be killed in the next two seconds, he realised that this, too, would be too late.

Oh yes, he thought grimly just before time seemed to speed up again and the guards were upon them. This was _just _their kind of luck.

**  
**He was very close to losing his patience and self-restraint – if he still possessed such things. He was by no means certain about it, which spoke volumes about his state of mind. All he was certain about at the moment was that something was seriously wrong here. Someone was watching them, or at least the building they were staying in, and he didn't like that feeling one bit.

Elrohir snorted inwardly, leaning his head against the window frame and wincing slightly when his bruised cheek came in contact with the cool, wet wood. It had been a day now since Isál had seen it fit to treat him like he would treat an orc or a particularly dumb idiot who wasn't able to look after himself, and the bruise on his face had now assumed a most interesting colour.

The other elf could count himself lucky that he was rather preoccupied at the moment, Elrohir mused darkly, namely with figuring out what in the name of all the Valar was going on here. Still, he wasn't going to forget this, despite the fact that Isál might have been right to hit him. He was a son of Elrond, after all, and he would be damned if he allowed anyone to hit him without retaliating, friend or no friend.

The dark-haired elf frowned heavily as his thoughts returned to more pressing matters, and once again he felt how a piercing headache began to grow inside his skull. He had always thought that he understood the younger races, well, at least to a certain degree. There were people, like the Dwarves, that he would of course never understand, not even as a Noldo, but up until now he had always believed that he knew how humans or hobbits thought.

Not anymore, though, Elrohir shook his head inwardly. The humans in this town – and, from what he had heard, also the neighbouring town – were insane, completely, utterly, wholly insane. It appeared that they possessed an intelligence that was roughly equivalent to that of a half-baked slice of bread – all of them combined, that was. With the possible exception of young Torel and maybe two or three others, they resembled a group of stupid, cruel children more than anything else. Not that he had ever seen such particular human children, though. The children he had seen until now (who, admittedly, had almost always been distantly related to him and had therefore been both incredibly handsome and highly intelligent) had been _nothing _like this.

With a quite audible sigh the elf forced himself to abandon that rather depressing train of thought as he tried once again to summarise what he knew, which was little enough. Torel, the boy who had been the only human that had been willing to help them, hadn't actually known all that much, which was only understandable since he was barely more than a child and therefore not important enough to be entrusted with any real power or responsibility. The mere fact that his father was Toran, one of the master traders of this town, was enough, however, to ensure that he was incomparably better informed than the rest of Aberon's population, most of the council members included.

Two members of the delegation might still be alive, Elrohir began to sum up the meagre extent of his knowledge. There was no definitive proof for anything like that, of course, but the fact that the men had found only found five bodies, not seven, was enough for him. Two of their people were still alive, they simply _had _to be, and he hoped with all his heart that they had somehow managed to get back home. He couldn't really see how they might have done that, if he was perfectly honest with himself, and the chances that they had been captured by those who had attacked them were incomparably larger, but it never hurt to hope, did it?

And he should know, shouldn't he, he decided self-depreciatingly. He was an expert by now, after all – he was doing little but hope for things lately. He hoped that the surviving two members of their delegation had managed to get back to Rivendell, he hoped that Aragorn and Legolas hadn't died in that fire, he hoped that his head wouldn't explode the next time he heard a councilman say something like "I have no idea what you are talking about, my lord", and, right now, he hoped that he would manage to get through this night without losing what was left of his sanity and composure.

And no, it wasn't much.

"You should take some rest, my lord," a soft voice somewhere to his right advised him. "If you really want to do what you have planned for tomorrow, you need to relax for a while, if nothing more. If you don't, you will start making mistakes."

Elrohir slowly turned around and gave the dark-haired elf next to him a blank look.  
"Who says that I will start making mistakes? The longer I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that that point was reached a long time ago."

The other elf smiled thinly.  
"You said that, my lord, not me."

"You don't have to say it, Isál," the twin muttered darkly. "By all the Valar, you don't have to. I know it myself. I should never have allowed them to separate us; I should have insisted on all of us staying together in one place. They would never have tried something like this if they'd had to go through twenty of us in order to get to Estel and Legolas."

"They are alive, Elrohir," Isál insisted. "You have to have faith in that. They are alive. There is no way they would allow something as stupid as a fire to get the better of them, not after all the things they have survived in the past."

"The fire was a ruse, a distraction, nothing more," the older elf brushed the other's words aside with a wave of his hand. "Someone used it as a way to get us out of the house, to cover up their trail, and that's about it. They – whoever they are – must have grabbed the two of them the moment they got out of the house, or even before that. But there is one thing I don't understand," he went on, frowning at Isál as if he was in any way responsible for their current situation. "What did they want with Estel and Legolas? Estel has never been here before, and no one here knows more than that he is a Ranger of the North. And they don't know who Legolas really is either – they don't even know that he is from Mirkwood. It just doesn't make any sense."

"What in this town does?" Isál asked wryly.

"Point taken."

"But, my lord," Isál went on, "I think I see what you mean. I talked about it with my men, actually, and I think there are only two answers to that. No, now that I think about it, I think that there are actually three. One, that they have an ulterior motive that we don't know, two, that it was a kind of accident and they simply grabbed whomever they could get their hands onto first, and three, that they didn't want them at all."

"That doesn't make much sense either, Isál," Elrohir shook his head. "If they didn't want them, then whom would they have wanted to capture?"

The dark-haired captain merely looked at him with a raised eyebrow, his eyes asking him if he really had to spell it out for him, and Elrohir realised just how stupid his question had been.  
"Oh. I see."

"Think about it, my lord," the younger elf insisted. "You are Lord Elrond's son, and the leader of our party. What would have happened if you would have disappeared, either alone or with me or Estel and the prince?"

"Knowing how much your Commander Meneldir enjoys being here and considering his level of patience for narrow-minded, uncooperative humans, I would guess something involving anger, violence and most likely bloodshed."

"Exactly," Isál nodded darkly. "It would have turned rather ugly if he'd thought that the people here had anything to do with the fire. He is not a very … understanding person."

"And then you picked him for this mission?" Elrohir asked incredulously. "Did you want to return home in the knowledge that your warriors killed half of this town?"

"No," the other elf protested, shaking his head in fake innocence. "His … less than understanding attitude must have slipped my mind."

"As well as the fact that he was a good friend of Elvynd, too, I guess?" Elrohir asked again, raising his second eyebrow as well. In the dim light, it looked almost as if they were disappearing into his dark hair, unable to face such a display of badly imitated inculpability.

"Yes," Isál said emotionlessly, even though the anger and pain in his eyes was easily visible. "I must have forgotten about that. And about the fact that, this way, at least some of those who are responsible for his death would get what they deserve. My lord."

"I would call that murder, and so would most other people, I believe."

"I beg to differ, my lord," the other elf shook his head, a dark and utterly uncompromising look on his face. "I would call it justice. These people here killed Elvynd and the others, or aided those who did, or at least didn't help them or look for them in any way. They are guilty, all of them."

"You don't really mean that, Isál," Elrohir shook his head as well, looking at the younger elf searchingly in a way that would have reminded most people of his father. "I know that you don't, and so do you."

The captain stared at him for a few moments, but found that he couldn't keep looking Elrohir in the eye and lowered his gaze. He finally took a deep breath and stepped forward, placing his elbows on the windowsill against which Elrohir was leaning.  
"No," he admitted almost hesitantly. "Not really, anyway. It just feels good to say something like that from time to time, no matter how stupid it may sound."

"It's understandable enough," Elrohir gave him something that looked remotely like a thin smile. "Not very diplomatic, though."

"I know," Isál nodded. "I never considered becoming a diplomat, most likely because of that very same reason." Elrohir smiled, this time for real, and Isál shook his head ruefully. "It's just that, sometimes, I hate those who killed them, who killed _him_, so much that I become … indiscriminate."

"I can relate to that," Elrohir assured the other elf. "I don't really have any warm feelings for the inhabitants of this town – or for the inhabitants of Donrag, for that matter. From what I have seen, not even the animals in this town like us."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Isál protested half-heartedly. "Elvynd once assured me that he met a benevolent kitten here. It has been some years, though, so it might be dead. It was in the year Estel cracked his wrist on that slope and nearly dragged him down the path with him."

The pained expression on Isál's face had a mirror image on Elrohir's as both of them remembered that particular incident.  
"Oh yes," the twin nodded wistfully. "That was quite an … interesting sight. It aged Elladan and me about half a millennium, but it was interesting." He fell silent for a few moments and finally tore himself away from these memories with as much force as he could muster. "Elvynd might still be alive. He could have survived the ambush and..."

"Please don't, my lord," Isál shook his head before Elrohir could finish the sentence. "Please don't say something like that. It is a vain hope, nothing more."

"It is not a vain hope, Isál," the dark-haired twin shook his head as well, obviously not only thinking about the other's friend. "The chances are…"

"Slim!" the other interrupted him again, whirling around to stare at him. "That's what they are! Seven to two, to be exact, which is not enough for me! I simply can't allow myself to hope for his survival, not when there is such a big chance that all my hopes will be dashed and my fears confirmed! I can't, not without losing my mind."

"I knew … know … Elvynd, Isál," Elrohir told him softly, unimpressed by the sudden outburst. "He is a fighter, and he doesn't know how to give up. If he survived the initial ambush, he will have found a way to get back to Imladris. You know that as well as I do."

"Aye, I do," Isál agreed, a little more calmly. "But I also know that every body has its limit, even an elven one. Imladris is six days away, and it would take a wounded person much longer to reach it. Tell me, my lord, how are the chances of a seriously injured elf to make it to Rivendell alive?"

Elrohir obviously thought about whether or not he should answer that question truthfully, and finally decided that his nerves were much too frayed for him to successfully lie to anyone but a blind and/or completely naïve person.  
"Not good," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Not good at all."

"Yes," the other elf nodded his head calmly. "So I had thought."

He closed his eyes and covered the closed lids with one of his hands, tiredly rubbing his forehead and shaking his head when Elrohir wanted to retort something.

"Don't misunderstand me, my friend. I want to believe that he is still alive, more than anything else I have ever wanted in my whole life. I want to believe that he survived, and I don't even care whether or not he is imprisoned right now as long as he still lives. I want to hope for this, but … I can't. I will not allow myself to even dwell on this subject, because it will simply drive me to distraction, if not to insanity. I would be willing to give one of my arms for the chance to find out the truth, or even both if I had to, but the simple truth is that there is no way for me to be sure, none at all. I will allow myself to think about it in the moment I hold some sort of proof in my hands, and not a second earlier."

"If it is worth anything to you, I pray that he managed to survive," Elrohir said softly, resisting the urge to place a hand on the other's shoulder. Somehow he had the feeling that Isál wouldn't appreciate the gesture overly much. "I know what it feels like to lose someone you love."

"It is, Elrohir," Isál assured him immediately. "Of course it is, and I thank you."

For a few moments, neither of them said a word, even though the silence between them could have been called comfortable only by someone who was gifted with a most vivid imagination. After a while Isál tore his eyes away from the only mildly interesting scene of the sleeping town in front of him and gave Elrohir an appraising look.  
"So you still want to do it tomorrow morning?"

Elrohir smiled grimly, noticing that Isál's voice had lost all incredulity that had still coloured it a few hours ago. The captain seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that his lord was a raving lunatic. His smiled widened almost imperceptibly. It had taken him long enough, then.  
"Yes."

"Are you sure that's such a … wise idea, my lord?"

"No," Elrohir shook his head and turned slightly to look at his friend. "No, I am not. In fact, I am almost sure that it is an exceptionally bad idea. But I don't think we have any alternatives. Do you?"

Isál grimaced in distaste, either at Elrohir's words or at their general situation that was admittedly rather spectacularly bereft of any options at all.  
"No," he admitted after a moment. "I do not, and neither do my men. I have talked with them about it, of course, and they agree with you."

"But you do not?"

"No, my lord, I do not," Isál shook his head once again. "I understand your motives, maybe better than anyone else here, but that doesn't mean that I think that it's a good idea."

"We have been over this, Isál," the dark-haired twin reminded him. "Thrice, to be exact."

"I remember," the other elf nodded curtly, looking rather annoyed for a fleeting moment. "And my opinion hasn't changed in the slightest. As I said, I understand your concerns and I share them, but I do not think that going anywhere near Donrag is a good idea. It is, begging your pardon, my lord, in fact bordering on positively idiotic."

"It is all we can do at the moment," Elrohir argued half-heartedly, apparently not liking this any better than his captain.

"We could confront the council with what we know," Isál countered. "That would elicit _some _sort of response."

"Oh, I am quite sure it would," Elrohir smiled wryly, but there was no amusement in his grey eyes. "What sort, though? We cannot afford being thrown out of this city right now, Isál, not while we don't know where Aragorn and Legolas are or at least what happened to them. I don't think that they would attack us outright in the town, no matter what we do or say, but we cannot be cast out of Aberon now, we simply _cannot_. Besides, it would tell them that someone has talked to us, and if there is one thing I don't want, it is getting Torel in more trouble than he is already in anyway. His father and that thrice-cursed Hurag may be many things, but they are not completely stupid. He risked much by even speaking with us, and I will not have him exposed unless I have no other choice."

"I understand that, my lord," Isál nodded in the way of a person who has been forced to listen to the same arguments over and over again. "But going to Donrag is … suicide, that's what it is! While we might not know exactly how involved the Men of Aberon are in all this, we _do _know that Donrag is behind the attack on our delegation!"

"We don't know that for sure," Elrohir protested, without any real conviction though. "Torel said that he and the others _thought _and _suspected _that Donrag was behind it, but considering that the two towns are only one step away from going to war with each other, that doesn't count for much in my opinion."

"Elrohir," Isál began slowly and leaned forward, something akin to desperation on his face. "Please listen to me. Your father will kill me if I let you go to that city."

Elrohir raised an eyebrow and looked at the other elf with a look of mild incredulity.  
"What do you think I am, Isál? Stupid?" Isál returned the look in kind and refrained from answering, and Elrohir realised that, maybe, he didn't really want to hear the answer to that particular question. "No, don't answer that."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lord."

"You _hit _me, Isál," Elrohir reminded the other elf (quite unnecessarily in his opinion), but there was no sting in his words or anger in his eyes. "I doubt that insulting me would be beyond you."

"You know me too well, my friend," Isál smiled slightly. "You are right. I have already prepared a list with all the things I've always wanted to say to you. Would you like to hear it?"

"Not now, thank you," Elrohir shook his head benevolently. "But really, Isál. I have learnt something from our … experiences in Baredlen. I won't get fooled again, neither by the Men of Donrag nor by the Men of Aberon. I will not go to a town whose inhabitants are almost certainly involved in something including murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, arson and general unfriendliness and simply knock at the town gates! We will observe the town and see if we can talk to some traders who are leaving it, that's all."

Isál looked at him for long moments, as if trying to gauge whether or not he was being serious, and finally nodded slowly.  
"We will not go anywhere near it, let alone enter it?"

"No, we will not," Elrohir shook his head emphatically. "Most decidedly not. We will return here before sunset – if the good people of Aberon open their gates for us, that is."

That they wouldn't wasn't all that far-fetched, either, he thought to himself. Even though the council had offered Isál and him new quarters in one of Toran's houses since their old house had so unfortunately ceased to exist, he wouldn't say that the humans were behaving in any way friendly or trustworthy. That might, however, be connected to the fact that he had reclined that offer with clear-cut but rather undiplomatic words that had been followed by some of his more unfriendly Quenya epithets, or the fact that he had spent the day running through this town looking for Hurag in one of his darker tempers.

Elrohir scowled inwardly. He hadn't found the elderly man, which was maybe even a good thing, because there was the fair chance that he would kill him on the spot once he found him – and that would mostly likely really get them thrown out of this town. And even though he had the feeling that they would be safe in one of Toran's houses (somehow, the younger master trader didn't appear to be as … insane as his older colleague), he would be damned if he allowed these people here to separate them from their men again. He might be gullible from time to time, but he wasn't a complete idiot. And besides, right now he preferred the company of their horses to that of their oh-so-friendly hosts.

"No," he repeated softly. "I am almost sure that some of our people, either Legolas and Estel or those of Erestor's party who survived the ambush, are somewhere in there, but we do not have the strength to free them openly. Tell you men to keep their eyes open for any sign of weakness, though. Since these people here are obviously insane, we might be able to penetrate Donrag's defences secretly, at night or even during daytime. If they have captured Legolas, my brother or some of our warriors, I will not allow them to keep them for any longer, that I swear by Elbereth herself."

"I understand," the younger elf inclined his head. "I will instruct my men accordingly."

"Thank you," Elrohir nodded as well. Isál merely returned the nod, and so he added, "No, not only for that, my friend. For coming to keep me company tonight. Thank you."

"You are most welcome, _mellon nín_," the dark-haired captain smiled. Even though there was real sympathy and friendship behind that smile, the darkness in his eyes never wavered. "The small hours of the night are the worst. I know."

"Yes, you would," the twin said softly. Isál only nodded silently once more, and for a few seconds it was quiet once more. "It never helps though, does it?" he added quietly after a minute. "Trying not to think about it, I mean."

"No," Isál admitted softly, staring at the thick drops of rain that were visible from their window. Most of the windows of the stable they were staying in didn't have any shutters, and if he had wanted to, he could have reached out and touched the rain. "No, it doesn't."

Elrohir merely nodded soundlessly, also looking at the all-obscuring rain. This time, the silence wasn't uncomfortable, and so the two of them stayed where they were, watching the rain and trying not to think about what they couldn't possibly forget.

**  
**If Legolas hadn't been so busy avoiding getting skewered by one of the guards, he would have been surprised at how quickly things could get from bad to very bad to abysmally bad to simply terrible. There were things that still amazed him, even after all the … interesting "experiences" he had had since he'd met Aragorn, and among them was the fact that no matter how bad a situation was, it could get worse in the matter of half a second.

Or in even less, if you practiced a lot and the Valar hated you.

Right now, the Valar most certainly seemed to hate them, which was more or less the reason why they were right now only a few steps away from being killed by a pair of still rather confused, but by now very determined guards. Only the fact that the two of them were apparently more determined than intelligent had prevented them from being recaptured, since even though the soldiers were trying to kill them, they hadn't thought of maybe calling for help, or reinforcements, or anyone.

Well, he wasn't complaining, Legolas decided quickly while he gave Aragorn a hard push, trying not to think about how much that would have hurt his friend or just what Lord Elrond would have said if he had seen it. He would most likely not even have said anything, he reasoned a moment later. The elf lord would simply have taken one of his large books and beaten him over the head with it.

Still, it was the only thing he could do at the moment, since Aragorn was either too surprised or too hurt to move quickly enough to avoid that first attack. The push he had given him knocked the young ranger against the wall with enough force to stun him for a few seconds, and while one part of Legolas was still wincing at the expression of undisguised pain that flashed over his friend's face, another nodded in utmost satisfaction since the sword that had been threatening to take the ranger's head off missed him completely, cutting through the air with a sharp, swishing sound.

The man who wielded the blade was unbalanced and couldn't stop his own momentum no matter how hard he tried, and so he stumbled forward, past Legolas and into the room the two of them had just left. There was an expression of such surprise on his face that Legolas found himself smiling grimly even despite the seriousness of their situation, even though his merriment was remarkably short-lived. There were two soldiers, after all, and while one of them may have been surprised that his intended victim had just crashed into the wall with enough force to make the candelabrum three feet away shake violently, the other was most certainly not.

Legolas had less than half a second to turn back around, which would have been rather tricky even under normal circumstances. Considering that his head was feeling as if it had been filled with wool and that his entire body hurt as if it had just been used as a toy by a group of adolescent trolls, it was a miracle that he even managed to turn half-way, but all relief or mild surprise at his own achievement disappeared in an instant when he realised that, no matter what he did, he was as good as dead.

Time seemed to slow down until everything was moving at the merest fraction of its normal speed, and even though he couldn't move a muscle and generally felt as if he had got stuck in tar or a similarly viscous substance, he had ample time to survey the scene in front of him. It wasn't really a great or particularly inspiring scene, mind you. It was, in fact, rather unfair and somehow very, very final. The second guard had regained his equilibrium rather quickly, something Legolas was by no means willing to acknowledge in any way, especially since the man had managed to sidestep Aragorn, check his own momentum and bring up his weapons at the same time. If he hadn't been so thoroughly annoyed and filled with dread, the elven prince might even have been impressed. For a man, that was quite an achievement.

Time still seemed to pass very slowly, and so Legolas had more than enough time to realise how utterly defenceless he was. He had nothing that could have been called a weapon by even a very optimistic person, and even if he'd had the time to try and defend himself, it would have been a rather desperate, if not vain, attempt. He was outmanoeuvred, unarmed and generally out of options. Wonderful.

The man in front of him seemed to realise the same thing in just this moment, and a malicious grin spread over his bearded face in the moment he moved forward to seize this chance. Time suddenly sped up again, and Legolas could only see the silver gleam of a short sword that cut through the air, wielded with quite a lot of deadly intent. An outraged voice in his own head began to scream at him, torn between panic and indignation, and even though Legolas hadn't thought he could move even a single muscle right now, his body began to move sidewards, desperately trying to do what his instincts told him, namely to get out of the way as quickly as possible.

Just as he had thought, he wasn't quick enough. It was a small miracle that he managed to move at all, but he didn't notice that, didn't even contemplate such a thought as, even despite his best, desperate attempts, the steel blade connected with his arm with the force of a hammer wielded by an especially enraged troll. He was still moving to the side, even now trying to avoid the sword as best as possible, and that might in fact have been the only thing that prevented the blade from cutting clean through the flesh of his arm and taking the appendage off completely.

For a second, Legolas thought that he might actually get away with only a scratch, but then the guard once again proved that he, in contrast to his colleague, didn't only possess rather good reflexes, but was also a lot more intelligent. A fraction of a second after Legolas had that rather optimistic thought, the man stepped forward half a step, compensating for the elf's movements.

Legolas had only half a second to curse the guard and all his ancestors and possible descendents before the pain hit him, engulfing his mind completely in a matter of moments. He barely noticed the blade cutting along the length of his arm, and the only thing that told him that it had stopped was the fact that the pain even increased as the weapon got stuck in a rib – or at least he thought so. The pain was so intense that it took his breath away, and just when he had thought that it couldn't get any worse, the man took a step backwards, wrenching the sword out of the wound.

It took all his strength not to collapse on the spot, and only the knowledge that Aragorn was somewhere in the fog to his left and might need his help kept him from giving in to the almost irresistible pull of gravity that promised him that lying on the floor in a heap would be far preferable to his current situation. He didn't know if it was the overwhelming weakness that filled him or whether the man had a lot of experience and knew exactly where to cut someone in order to cause maximum pain, but it couldn't have hurt more if something big, unfriendly and sharp-teethed had torn off his arm at the shoulder.

At least he thought so, an inner voice corrected him wryly. It might have hurt more if that little ox-thing Celylith had been so fond of in Baredlen had chewed off his arm. Only a little bit, though.

That particular memory caused a shudder to race across his back – how Celylith, who was otherwise a normal enough elf, could adore such beings was something he would never understand – and it also served to fill him with new determination. The insane lord of that place, Girion, hadn't managed to kill him, his equally insane commander, Teonvan, hadn't managed to kill him, and about a hundred of their henchmen hadn't managed to kill him, and he would be damned if he allowed a random guard of a completely unimportant town to skewer him who served a lady who was apparently as mad as a hatter.

Determination could only get you so far, however, as he realised only a few moments later. The pain that pulsed through his body intensified with every movement he made, and by the time a shadow fell over his face, heralding the return of the soldier who had stumbled through the open door next to him no more than ten or fifteen seconds ago, he had only managed to push himself off the wall against which he had collapsed.

The man looked surprised more than anything else and was apparently trying to figure out what exactly had happened in the time he'd been gone, and he was just beginning to move to assist his companion who was stepping closer as well, apparently to end what he had begun, when Legolas decided that this brief moment of distraction was the best chance he would get. He waited for half a second until the guard who had injured him had taken another step forward, and just when his colleague's eyes moved slightly to the side to look at his companion, the elf moved forward, pouring all his remaining strength and speed into the movement.

Before the man had even returned his full attention to the elf who had been half-leaning against the wall and decorating it with random, dark-red patterns, Legolas had moved past him, completely surprising him and the other guard. The man who had taken such pleasure in cutting open his arm had apparently been expecting him to attack him (if he had been expecting him to attack anyone, that was), and did therefore nothing but stare while the fair-haired elf moved into the opposite direction, past the other man and into the direction of the open door.

The soldier hadn't even managed to turn his head to follow the elf's movements when a long, blood-covered hand reached out, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his skull against the wall. Half a second later the hand was withdrawn, and the man only stood there for a heartbeat, looking remarkably like a puppet whose strings had just been cut. Another second later he collapsed soundlessly, letting go of his sword as he slid down the wall and came to an ungentle stop at one of the door posts.

Legolas would have liked to stop for a second to look at this highly satisfying picture or at least try to and pick up the fallen man's sword, but he didn't even need to listen to the increasingly panicky voice inside his head to know that he was out of time. The pain that had shot through him when he had slammed the man's head against the wall had been nearly enough to make him pass out on the spot, and even though it wouldn't have been obvious to someone who didn't know him or the speed with which he usually moved, it had slowed him down.

He didn't exactly know how much, but he knew that it had, and he also knew that that was a very bad thing. The soldier at his back had proven not too long ago that he was neither slow nor stupid, and he would surely use this chance to thrust his blade into his back. It had been a stupid mistake, Legolas chided himself while he desperately willed his body to move faster. He should have known he wouldn't be able to move as fast as usually in the condition he was in at the moment, he should have remembered it when he had come up with this little plan ten seconds ago, he should…

His inner monologue was suddenly cut off as he turned around, and literally found himself face to face with a blade that was stained red with blood – quite a lot of it actually. _His _blood. The man holding it grinned at him, apparently rather unperturbed by his companion's fate, and raised his sword a little, forcing the elf to raise his head and try to move backwards in order to avoid having his face cut open, too.

A strange sense of fatalism spread through Legolas as he looked at the impassive and at the same time mocking face of his opponent. He didn't have the strength to move, and besides, there was nowhere to go. There were only one or two feet separating him from the wall at his back, and the man could easily sidestep him if he tried to move sidewards. The man seemed to realise that as well, and his grin widened as he drew back slightly to deliver the lethal blow.

Well, Legolas thought wryly, the pain in his arm and side suddenly fading, it could be worse. The man could be talking, or rather bragging. He didn't appear to be as much in love with his own voice as his captain – neither of the two guards had, in fact, spoken a single word since they had spotted them – something for which Legolas was beginning to be very thankful. If he had to die, he would at least die without someone jabbering in the background.

Legolas was still looking at the man's face and was so focused on his own thoughts and the pain that was increasing once again that he didn't notice the surprise that spread over the guard's face, and neither did he notice the man's attempts to turn around. What he did notice, however, was the surprisingly bright sword tip that suddenly appeared in the centre of the other's chest, even though he could for the life of him not figure out how it had got there.

The guard seemed to have much the same problems, at least judging by the astonished expression on his face. His mouth opened, even though no sound could be heard, and his lips formed a round "O" of pure surprise. As suddenly as it had appeared the sword tip was gone, and all Legolas could do was blink as the man collapsed, dead or dying. As the soldier's body hit the ground, another figure was revealed, holding a rather bloody sword and wearing an expression of such fury that even Legolas was surprised.

Aragorn stared at the dying man who had injured his friend, anger still coursing brightly through his veins when he even looked at him. He clung to that fury with every ounce of strength he possessed, feeling how it suppressed the pain and weakness in his body.

"That," he commented softly in a voice that was too nonchalant to be friendly, "was stupid."

The other man was long past answering, and so the young ranger turned away from him without another word, stepping over his legs in order to reach his friend's side. The fair-haired elf was leaning against the wall, blood flowing freely from the deep gash that ran from the middle of his forearm to almost the small of his back, but he opened his eyes as the man stopped in front of him and gave him a look that was full of pain and impatience.

"Can we ... please go now?"

Aragorn smiled almost against his will as he bent down and painfully removed the unconscious man's sword sheath from his belt.  
"Anything for you, _mellon nín_."

He straightened back up after a few moments, sheathed the blood-encrusted sword with his left hand and, after a look at his semiconscious friend, began to drag the two still bodies into the direction of the still open door. It would fool no one who gave this corridor a closer look (and who knew, maybe people had already been attracted by the fight's noise), especially considering that there was blood on the floor and the walls, but it was the best he could do right now.

After several painful minutes the man closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment to catch his breath, grinning inwardly while he imagined Lady Acalith entering it in the morning and finding this little surprise. It would be an interesting sight, that much was sure.

Tearing himself away from that particular mental picture, he returned to his elven friend's side, trying to suppress the worry that welled up inside of him as he saw the deep wound that was still leaking blood. There was nothing he could do, not here, but he would need to stop soon and see to it, especially if the blood flow didn't stop until now.

"Come now, my friend," he began softly as he reached out with his right arm to steady the elf, suppressing a scream of pain as a part of Legolas' weight came to rest on his maltreated forearm and wrist. He blinked against unwelcome tears and reminded himself of the fact that yes, it might hurt, but that it would hurt a lot more if they were caught by more guards and he would be unable to draw his sword because he was supporting his friend with his working arm. He returned his attention to his fair-haired friend, who looked about as well as he himself felt. "We need to get away from here."

"That, Estel," Legolas retorted hoarsely, all his attention focused on not passing out at every painful step he took, "Is the most intelligent suggestion … you have made in … quite some time."

The man had neither the intention nor the breath to correct him, and so the two of them moved down the corridors of the large house as fast as they could. It wasn't very fast, however, and so it took them half an eternity to reach the stables. Their very short lucky streak ended just then, however, because Aragorn didn't even have to take a closer look at the two men standing close to what looked like the main entrance to see that they were in fact guarding it. He stopped, quickly making sure that they were hidden from any prying eyes by the darkness and the deep shadows a building to their left cast, and scanned the stables for another entrance that was unguarded.

There wasn't one, as he quickly discovered, which didn't surprise him overly much either. It would have been too easy if they actually had some good luck around here, wouldn't it?

Aragorn rolled his eyes while he began to move again, pulling his friend with him and trying not to pass out at the same time. He would have to find another way, then – in the next few minutes, if somehow possible. He didn't really want to be somewhere around here when someone discovered the two guards he had hidden in Lady Acalith's study, or when the 'Fox' was told about their escape and his men's death.

He slowly and stealthily began to make his way over to the wall that encircled the compound, looking for a smaller, possibly unguarded gate that might actually offer them a chance to escape, and had to suppress a small, half-annoyed and half-amused grin.

Maybe his father was right and the Valar didn't want to kill him and everyone who associated with him, but right now they could have fooled him.

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**_mellon nín - my friend_

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•shakes head• They really haven't understood anything, do they? And I thought they had understood that the Valar hate them... Ah well. •shrugs• Let's say they're optimists, shall we? Other people would call them stupid, though... Okay, so they're escaping, more or less. Stay tuned for the next bit, in which we find out just how that will go. You can guess, of course. •g• Even though I won't be able to read any reviews right away, I would be very thankful for every single one. I'm close to going out of my mind here. •g• **

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**Additional A/N:**

**I decided that it would be unfair to respond only to a few reviews, which is why I won't be responding to any. I only got the ones I got before the 9th, so it would be stupid only responding to those and to ignore the others. Besides, I have a paper due next week, and another the week after that, so yes, I'm lazy, too. I'm sorry about that. **

Once again, thank you for all your patience and understanding. •huggles• Thanks!


	25. The Great Escape

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Well, it would seem that I was right. I just KNEW that the stupid phone company wouldn't reconnect me the day they said they would. I am beginning to suspect that they have a secret alliance with FF-net and are trying to drive me mad. They're too late, though - I already am. •readers are silent• You know, that was your cue to protest. •readers remain silent• You people are no fun at all...

**Anyway, I'm back. Only via an ISDN connection (Gosh, I DO miss my DSL!), but it's better than nothing, I guess. Oh, and I'm not in Spain at the moment. If I were, I wouldn't be writing this, namely because I wouldn't have any time at all and also because I would already have got lost on the way from my flat to the university. Besides, you seem to underestimate our (and the Spanish) bureaucracy. I am still trying to fill in all the forms I need (half of which I can't possibly fill in right now, but nobody cares about trivialities like that), and am quite glad I won't be leaving till September. I would never make it in time otherwise. •g•**

**Still, I would like to apologise for keeping you guys waiting for so long. I didn't do it out of malice (well, my alter ego might have •g•), it's just that people around here don't believe in free internet access in libraries. Would be too easy, wouldn't it? And finding a free internet computer at my university can be ... daunting. Most of the time, it also involves small scuffles, life-long grudges and the occasional broken finger bone. •g•**

Be that as it may, here's the next chapter, in which Aragorn and Legolas escape (kind of, that is), Gasur, Acalith, Salir and Reod have a little discussion and essentially come to the conclusion that they all hate each other, and Aragorn once again does something incredibly ... stupid. Which, of course, leads to a small cliffy. So, same old, same old, eh? Oh, and yes, the chapter title IS meant ironically. •g•

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Chapter 24

Dawn was slowly beginning to creep over the horizon, not yet more than a faint, pinkish glow that was appearing in the East. It was hardly visible because of the thick, grey clouds that were covering the heavens, but if one stared really, really hard at the sky for a prolonged amount of time, one could see the wispy beams of sunlight.

Right now, however, neither of the two beings that were moving through the streets of Donrag had the time to stop and do anything for a prolonged amount of time, least of all stare at the sky. They were, in fact, walking as fast as their wounded bodies would allow, all the while casting quick looks about them, looking for anything or anyone that might see them and give away their position.

No matter how quickly they were moving, they were obviously not fast enough, Aragorn thought darkly, surprising himself by the amount of cynicism that coloured his thoughts. No, the sun wasn't rising yet and the streets were still as dark as night, but dawn _had _arrived. It wouldn't be long now before the people of this town left their houses to attend to their daily business – and once that happened, they were finished. There was absolutely no way anyone could or would overlook them, not in the condition they were in and not even if no one back at the manor noticed their escape and alerted the whole town.

'Ah, whom am I trying to kid?' the young man asked himself self-deprecatingly. Of course someone would notice their escape. Gasur, or whatever the 'Fox' was calling himself nowadays, might be many things, but he was not incompetent. There would be a changing of the guards this morning, he knew it as certain as he knew that water was wet. As soon as that happened, their escape would be discovered, and as soon as _that _happened, they would be in real trouble.

No, he corrected himself almost instantly, they already were in real trouble. The ranger gave the elf he was holding upright a look that was just long enough to take in the pale features and the cold sweat that beaded his forehead. Legolas wasn't too aware of what was going on around him, which didn't surprise him in the slightest. The wound he had received was deep and no doubt very painful, and the severe blood loss on top of his previous injuries was proving to be too much even for an elven constitution.

Aragorn's dark expression became even darker, and he hurried his steps, dragging his elven friend with him around a corner. He couldn't stop, not now, but he knew that he would have to in half an hour at the latest, or he would have to carry Legolas. He knew from experience that an elven body could survive and endure much more than, for example, a human one, but he was also a healer and had a working pair of eyes in his head. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his friend would lose consciousness, and if he was perfectly honest, he wasn't sure if he would be able to carry him. Helping him walk was beginning to take most of the strength he had still left, and even though he knew that elves weighted little, he doubted that he would be able to carry him.

He thought about stopping for a moment while he carefully peered down the next alleyway, feeling his lungs burn with the need for additional oxygen, but quickly decided against it. If he stopped now, he wouldn't be able to get up until Gasur and his merry men appeared to take them back to the cellars. His lungs, however, weren't the only part of him that was burning. A sneaky and thoroughly deranged man appeared to have exchanged his shoulder joints – which had served him quite well until now, mind you – for ones made out of hot metal, and his head had seen better days, too. He didn't even contemplate the condition of his right wrist. There were things he'd rather not think about, thank you very much.

Ignoring his body's complaints as well as he could, Aragorn tightened his grip on his friend and began to move again, into the direction of the town wall. Well, at least he thought that it was the direction of the town wall – he wasn't all that certain about it. Since Legolas was fully occupied with not passing out, the only memories he could rely on were his own, which were rather sketchy at best. When they had been brought here, his head had been ringing from the blow he had received and the overwhelming worry and fear for Elrohir and Isál that had filled him then, which hadn't really been conducive to his concentration. The fact that his head was doing little better now wasn't helping matters either.

How he had managed to get the two of them out of the courtyard, he did not really know, nor did he think he would ever figure it out. Even though it couldn't have been much more than half an hour ago, he couldn't remember much except the very powerful, very urgent feeling of having to get away, as fast as possible.

There hadn't been too many guards in the yard, and the attention of those who had been on duty had apparently been focussed on keeping people out of the compound, and not in it. Aragorn wasn't really sure whether that meant that not all of Donrag's inhabitants were actually supporting Lady Acalith or that the guards were simply stupid, but he wasn't complaining. If the men had been a little more vigilant and watchful, they would still be stuck on the wrong side of the wall surrounding Acalith's house.

The side of Aragorn that had been trained in fighting and warfare since he was a child shook its head reproachfully. If the guards had been under his command, he would have had their hides for their inattentiveness. He wasn't of the opinion that you had to follow every single rule there was, but some rules were there for a reason. An inattentive, careless guard was worse than useless, because everyone else trusted him to actually do his job. 

If he had been their commanding officer, he would have made sure that they watched even the smallest gate, especially the kind they had used to leave Acalith's oh-so-hospitable house. No, he corrected himself a moment later, he wouldn't have done that, because he would never have allowed them to join his unit. He had a few principles about things like these, and one of them was never to entrust a moron with the intelligence of a braindead hill-troll with something he cherished as much as his life.

Be that as it may, he knew that they had been exceedingly lucky until now. They had managed to leave the courtyard without anyone noticing, but it had been a close thing. While he had picked the lock that had been attached to the thick metal beam that kept the gate closed (how exactly he had done that, with his left hand shaking and his broken right one holding Legolas upright, he would never know), one of the guards had passed them, no more than perhaps twenty yards to their left. They had been in the shadow of the wall and rather well-hidden by the side of one of the small towers that protruded from the ramparts, but for a second he had really thought that the other man had seen them.

He hadn't, though, and that had been a good thing, too, because there had been no way he could have killed him before he alerted his comrades. The guard had simply walked past them without even looking in their direction, and after a few seconds he had continued working on the lock. After several eternities, it had opened reluctantly, and a few moments later they had moved over the threshold and into the direction of the nearest alleyway with a speed he hadn't thought possible.

Now, however, their luck was beginning to run out, Aragorn thought, surprised that it was happening now and hadn't happened much sooner. Nothing had gone according to plan until now, after all, and with them having to leave Erestor behind, hiding in the wrong room, almost being killed by a pair of guards and finding out that the stables were too well-guarded to … well, "borrow" a horse, he had expected them to run into a company of soldiers a long time ago. Or maybe into Gasur, or Acalith, or maybe into Lord Girion who had risen from the grave in order not to miss their ultimate demise. The young ranger smiled grimly. At this point, even that wouldn't surprise him overly much anymore.

He was still staring at the newest obstacle that had so kindly jumped into their way when the elf he was more or less holding up stirred slightly and raised his head, apparently realising that they had stopped. A bleary blue eye moved away from the road and fastened on the dark-haired man's face, looking mildly confused.

"Why have we … stopped?"

Aragorn would have liked to laugh, and only the fact that he didn't have the breath or strength to do more than gasp for air stopped him.   
"We seem to have run into a little … problem."

That was, in fact, a rather nice way of putting it, he decided inwardly. Since he knew that it had been luck more than anything else that had enabled them to even get out of the courtyard, he had been looking for a smaller town gate that would allow them to escape these obviously mad people as quietly as possible. He had steered them past two larger gates that had been too well-guarded and had finally focussed all his hopes on this one, mainly because he didn't think that they had the time to delay their escape any longer. Every second brought them another step closer to possible re-capture, something he was prepared to avoid by all means necessary.

There was only one problem, of course. This gate was guarded as well, this time by guards who looked – unfortunately – as if they were more intelligent than a group of hill-trolls.

Aragorn realised that his elven friend was still waiting for an answer and jerked his head into the direction of the gate opposite and to the right of them, clearly visible even though there were only two torches lighting the area.  
"I do not think that these nice gentlemen will just let us pass," he answered simply.

Legolas' eyes followed the movement of his friend's head, and after several moments he returned his attention to the young man next to him.   
"You just might be right about that, Estel."

"I know," the ranger nodded grimly, regretting it almost instantly as the dull pain in his head intensified. "I think we're in trouble." 

The corners of the elf's mouth quivered in faint amusement, and if he hadn't been so focussed on not passing out and therefore make everything even harder on his friend, he might even have smiled. Then again, his body hadn't been responding to his mind's orders all that well lately, so he might not be able to actually smile right now.

"It's a little late for that … assessment, don't you … think?"

"Most likely," Aragorn agreed, his eyes sweeping over the scene in front of him, obviously looking for a way around the guards that were vigilantly keeping watch over this part of the alleys. "About five years, I think."

"Ha!" the elf exclaimed softly, narrowing his eyes at his human friend and gathering most of the strength he had still left in order to concentrate on the problem at hand. "Five years!"

He could still feel how small rivulets of fresh blood ran down his arm and side, and the pain was almost bad enough for him to wish that the guard's hand-eye-coordination had been a little better and that he had taken his head off instead of nearly cutting him to pieces. Being dead wouldn't hurt, at least. It would be slightly boring, he suspected, but it wouldn't hurt. He would need to ask Lord Glorfindel about this, he decided fuzzily. He didn't think that the golden-haired elf lord would answer this kind of question, but he could try, couldn't he?

"I never got into this kind of trouble before I met you, Estel," he stated softly, shaking his head firmly to emphasise his point. "Five years ago, I was a happy and carefree elf who never got captured by evil, sadistic megalomaniacs who wanted to kill me, mark my words."

"No," Aragorn shook his head just as firmly while he mentally debated whether they should go on and look for another, more carelessly guarded gate. They didn't have the time, he decided a moment later. Any minute now, they would have a changing of the guards, and then… He interrupted his own train of thought, knowing that he had visualised the possible consequences of such an event more than once already, and turned back to his friend. "Of course you didn't. Celylith, however, would strongly disagree, were I to ask him for his opinion on this."

"No, he … wouldn't," Legolas shook his head, clenching his teeth as the pain in his upper arm and shoulder suddenly spiked to new, thoroughly uncomfortable levels. "He knows that it is … highly inappropriate to publicly disagree with his … lord and prince."

"Of course," Aragorn nodded ironically. "He is so wonderfully obedient and respectful all the time, isn't he?"

"Actually, he is," Legolas answered thoughtfully. "In public, that is."

Aragorn took two seconds to think about that, and finally came to the conclusion that the elf was right. Celylith wasn't afraid to tell other people just what he thought, including and especially Legolas, but he was also very aware of the fact that Legolas wasn't only his friend but also his prince. He had never criticised or disrespected Legolas in front of others, not even in front of him. Well, the man thought, not too often in front of him. When the silver-haired elf was truly angry or worried, he tended to forget that he was only the son of one of the Elvenking's advisors and that it was not his place to judge his prince or tell him what to do.

"You are right," he informed his elven friend a moment later. "And right now I would give one of my hands to have him here, and if he were to bring his sword, I would even kiss him." He paused for a moment, and added explanatorily, "My right hand, that is. It's useless anyway."

Legolas had either not listened to what he had said or had too little breath left to say anything. The elf was staring straight ahead, not even blinking once, and Aragorn made a mental note to check him for head injuries as soon as they could stop for longer than a few seconds. He knew that Legolas could behave strangely from time to time – he was a Silvan Elf, after all – but he rarely ignored him completely.

"I wonder what he would do if he were here?" he wondered out aloud, still looking at his blond friend. He was pale and there was a fine sheet of sweat on his forehead, but he didn't look confused or disoriented. "Celylith, I mean? Probably something involving some kind of smelly, hairy, ill-tempered monster."

"Yes … maybe," Legolas agreed softly. "But I think … that he would … well … just go?"

For a moment, Aragorn thought that pain and exhaustion were beginning to become too much for his friend and was already preparing to catch him should he lose consciousness, but then the serious undertone in the elf's voice made him realise that he was very serious. He looked up, only to decide a moment later that, if Legolas was beginning to go crazy, it just might be contagious. The guards were leaving, all of them, marching down the street in a short, orderly column.

The ranger closed his eyes, counted to three and opened them again, fully expecting to see the guards back at their posts. They remained gone, however, and Aragorn frowned heavily while he tried to come up with a reason for it. Just why would the Valar decide to smile upon them all of the sudden?

"It is a trap," he finally said, eyeing the unguarded gate with a mixture of incredulity, suspicion and longing. "Is has got to be a trap. They are hoping to lure us out into the open." 

"Then they would know that … that we have escaped," Legolas told him, also looking at the gateway as if expecting it to grow legs and walk away. "No alarm has been sounded. It doesn't make … any sense."

"Nothing here does," Aragorn stated grimly, and, with a deep intake of breath, came to a decision. "We can't afford to let this opportunity pass. It might be a trap, but it also might be standard procedure around here, who knows. I say we go and get out of here."

Legolas was silent for a moment, staring at the gate in front of them and reaching out with his senses, trying to sense if there was danger in the air. He gave up after a few seconds, feeling completely drained by the short attempt. He hadn't felt as if anything was amiss, and while it might have been because he was in a town of men and not in the forest, he had the faint feeling that it was not a trap.

"Very well," he nodded a moment later. "We go."

Aragorn needn't be told twice and immediately began to move over to the small gateway, his left hand grasping the hilt of his sword and his eyes darting around suspiciously. No one and nothing made a move to stop them, however, and so the two of them disappeared through the quickly opened gate only a few minutes later, the door closing behind their retreating figures with a soft thud.

On the balcony of one of the houses in the alleyway, a middle-sized, well-kept building that lay in the deep shadow an even larger house to its right cast, a rather small, grey-haired man took a step forward, leaving the cover the building offered him. He didn't wear the costly robes that usually adorned his figure, and in the simple shirt and breeches in varying shades of brown he looked like a dozen other older menservants in this town. 

He stared at the dark field beyond the town wall with narrowed eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the two beings he knew to be there somewhere, but even his for his age unusually sharp eyes couldn't spot anything. Very good, he thought to himself. It would be a shame if the two of them were caught all too quickly, wouldn't it?

His ears picked up the sound of marching feet, and he smiled thinly as a group of six soldiers rounded the corner below him, quickly nearing the now once again inconspicuous-looking gate. The next guard unit was here, and right on time, too. They wouldn't wonder about the fact that their comrades had left their posts early, at least not overly much. He had made sure that one of his men informed their commanding officer that the night shift had needed to return to the barracks a little earlier than usual, in order to be able to prepare for a special assignment from one of the commanders.

There was such an assignment of course, he had made sure of that, too. Every officer knew that the last phase of their lady's plan had begun, so special assignments were not exactly a rare occurrence at the moment. No, he thought to himself, the guards wouldn't wonder, and even when the elf's and the ranger's escape was noticed, as it was bound to be, no one would step forward and admit fault, neither the men who had left too early (at his instigation, if he was completely honest) nor the men who were arriving just now. Only a fool would do that and face Captain Gasur with such news, and there were not many fools left in their little army.

No, Salir thought with a smile that would have given even Gasur cause for concern. If he played his cards just right, no one would ever know that he had aided the captives in their escape. One of the officers who were loyal to him and not to Gasur had noticed the elf and the ranger when they had been sneaking out of the courtyard, and instead of raising the alarm the man had come to him, something for which he would be paid handsomely. He had needed only one moment to realise what kind of opportunity was just presenting itself to him, and had almost instantly ordered the commander not to tell anyone about what he had seen, least of all Captain Gasur.

It had been a risk sending the guards of this gate away, but he had suspected that the two escapees would chose this gate and not one of the others. The other three or four gates that were in the vicinity of the point where his man had seen the two of them were heavily guarded, by soldiers who knew their business well. The prisoners had been in the hands of Gasur for an entire day now, and if he knew the dear captain at all, they wouldn't be in the condition to try and attack a whole guard corps unless they didn't have any other choice. His guess had proven to be correct, in the end, proving to him nothing more than the fact that neither of the two was stupid or suicidal.

The grey-haired councillor slowly turned around after making sure that no one had noticed the prisoners' escape and began to walk into the direction of the staircase that would lead him back to the ground level of the house. If he wasn't very much mistaken, the changing of the guards up at the main house would be soon; it took place about twenty minutes after the changing of the guards down here. He would have to be back at the manor when that happened, where he could be seen by as many people as possible, just in case Gasur put two and two together and blamed him for the elf's and the ranger's escape.

It wasn't that he cared for their well-being or wanted to protect them in any way, of course. He had been hesitant in the beginning, fearing the elf lord's wrath more than anything else, but now he was committed. There was no going back now, and he was neither stupid nor naïve enough to believe that by letting the two of them go they would be able to pacify Lord Elrond and his warriors, should they ever find out what was going on here.

They wouldn't, however, since the elf and the ranger wouldn't escape. They would be trying to get to Aberon now, he suspected, and as unhappy as he was to admit that, if he could come to that conclusion in only a few seconds, then so could Gasur. They were on foot, while Gasur would pursue them on horses as soon as he had ascertained that they were no longer in the town, and while the captain and his men were rested or at least uninjured, the elf and the ranger had looked as if they had got on the wrong side of a troll's hammer. They wouldn't stand a chance.

Which was only good, he thought grimly. He was no traitor, after all, and didn't want to save the two of them or any other of their kind. He wanted to see them dead almost as much as Gasur, and be it only to make sure that they wouldn't be able to disturb their lady's plans anymore. No, the two of them would die, but he also had to admit that they were rather resourceful. It would take Gasur some time to catch up with them and kill them, long enough to make him look like an incompetent fool.

Salir smiled openly while he waited for his servant to lock the door of his house behind him. He knew what Gasur and their lady were doing right now, knew it without one of his spies having to tell him. But he also knew that, whatever the two of them were doing in the darkness and privacy of their bedrooms, it didn't matter to Acalith, not in the slightest.

Gasur fooled himself if he thought that his new status as their lady's … "confidant" would protect him from her wrath. He had served her longer than any other of the councillors or captains in her service, and he had seen many of her confidants and favourites. Neither their intelligence nor their ruthlessness or good looks had protected them in the end. Those who made mistakes fell from her favour, and there was always someone new to fill their place.

The grey-haired man's smile widened. He hadn't helped the elf and the ranger because he wanted to protect them, no. He had helped them to escape in order to make sure that Gasur fell out of favour for good. Even if he managed to recapture and/or kill the fair-haired elf and his friend, he wouldn't be able to wipe this black mark off his record. Salir sighed contentedly. Gasur had allowed two-thirds of their prisoners to escape, and he had the faint idea that that was something Lady Acalith wouldn't find amusing in the slightest. 

The servant had finally locked the door behind them, and so Salir began to walk down the street, into the direction of the manor. Even though the sky was still dark and overcast and faint drizzle was falling, he couldn't help but grin openly.

He would never be able to oppose Gasur openly, but in a battle of wits, the dark-haired captain would lose every time.  
**  
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****  
**  
****

Under normal circumstances, Reod didn't enjoy being woken at dawn. He enjoyed it even less when he had gone to bed only three hours ago, no matter how enjoyable the prior company might have been, and he positively hated it when he was woken by someone who could only be called a nervous wreck only one step away from a mental breakdown.

He didn't blame Genrir, though, the brown-haired captain admitted inwardly. His lieutenant may be slow on the uptake, but he did possess good instincts, all of which had been screaming at him to find himself a nice, deep, dank hole and hide in it for the next few years. It was a rather sensible idea, considering how angry Gasur had been when he had given the lieutenant the order to find his superior and bring him to the conference room.

It might actually have been quite a good thing that, some days ago, he had realised that he was afraid of Gasur. It hadn't been a realisation he had cherished – he still didn't – and not one he was overly proud of, but it had been dictated by reality and necessity. He was experienced enough to know that it was never good to lie to yourself, even if, deep down, you knew that you would never be able to act against that fear.

Apart from that, it also enabled him to fully cherish this … well, yes, this spectacle. Only the knowledge that he feared Gasur, that he would never oppose him openly or would incur his wrath if he had any other choice, allowed him to sit back and enjoy his fellow captain's predicament. Predicament might actually be the wrong word, Reod corrected himself. Gasur looked about ready to burst one or more major blood vessels. If he was lucky, the other man might even suffer a stroke. He doubted that he would be that fortunate, but it was a rather nice fantasy.

Unsurprisingly, Gasur did not suffer a stroke, nor did he show any other signs that he might be reacting physically to the news. It was a shame, really, Reod decided, feeling rather disappointed. He would have loved to see Gasur collapse into a quivering heap, and was prepared to react to his eventual – and hopefully painful – death with the utmost indifference. 

Reod barely realised that he was beginning to smile faintly, so thoroughly was he caught up in his inner musings, but he quickly suppressed all signs of amusement when Gasur whirled around and glared at him, something that, under different circumstances, would have caused his heart to freeze inside his chest. Today, however, all he did was look back at the brown-haired man, and not even when Gasur's light brown, empty eyes locked with his did he avoid his gaze.

"Do you have something to say, Captain?" Gasur asked sharply, apparently working very hard to keep his emotions under control.

"Oh, no," Reod shook his head, deciding that this was definitely worth having been ripped out of a particularly pleasant dream. "Nothing, Captain. Nothing at all."

For a few moments, Gasur obviously pondered whether or not he was being taunted, but then he turned back around to stare at the man in front of him, who literally cringed under his look.

"Go on, Fosul," he hissed at his fair-haired lieutenant, sounding like a large, especially ill-tempered snake. "You were explaining just _how _the two of them managed to escape."

The other man gulped, took a deep breath and studiously avoided his superior's eyes as he answered him.  
"We don't know, sir."

"You don't know."

"No, sir," the younger man repeated softly. "It appears as if they … picked the locks."

"They picked the locks."

"Yes, sir," Fosul bowed his head, apparently asking himself if Gasur had decided to repeat every single word he said. "We don't know how either."

"I can tell you how," Gasur retorted, sounding almost calm. "The elf lord helped them. I don't know how he did it, but he somehow managed to open their chains and set them free."

"And they left him behind for it," Fosul added. "That's an interesting way to thank him."

Reod rolled his eyes, and only the distaste he felt for this blond creature that was so much like its master prompted him to open his mouth and actually participate in this conversation.

"He can't walk," he explained slowly, completely aware of the fact that he was talking to the other men as if they were highly stupid children. "He would have been a burden and made an escape impossible. He knew that; they knew that. What did you expect them to do?" 

Fosul blinked, obviously not knowing what to say, but Gasur was neither as clueless nor as stupid as his subordinate. He turned around to his fellow captain with the speed of an angry rattlesnake, fury and also a little fear on his face.  
"Why were there no guards in the corridor? Why weren't they better guarded? And why in the name of all the Dark Ones did nobody see them, let alone try to stop them?"

For a moment, Reod found himself nearly overcome with sudden fear, once again spellbound by the nothingness in the other captain's eyes. Then he shook his head inwardly and forced a small, ironic smile onto his face, having decided that it would be a shame to ruin this rare opportunity with something as stupid as paralysing fear. Besides, he still had a reputation to protect. He was the senior captain, after all, and until the day came that Gasur decided that serving under him was no longer enough and had him eliminated, he would not back down before him in public.

"I can tell you why, Gasur," he answered far more calmly than he really felt. "Because you were so sure that the elf and the ranger didn't pose a threat anymore and reassigned their guards, that's why. They weren't seen because they're clever and dangerous, and nobody sounded an alarm because they killed the guards who discovered them. Is that enough or should I continue?"

"Oh, it's not enough," a cool, soft voice behind them declared, and Reod was treated to the rare pleasure of seeing Gasur cringe while the two of them whirled around. "Not nearly enough to answer any of these particular questions."

The two captains bowed before their mistress who had just entered the room with Salir, but it was Gasur who found his voice first.   
"My lady."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Acalith retorted in at least as scathing a tone of voice as Gasur had used earlier. "Right now I am thinking about having the entire night guard – and their officers, mind you – executed." She paused for a moment, her dark gown rustling softly until she stopped only a few feet away from the three soldiers. "In case you were wondering: That means you, gentlemen."

"We are aware of that, my lady," Gasur nodded, still not meeting the young woman's eyes. "I would advise against it, however, since you would lose…"

"I do not want your advice, Gasur!" Acalith snarled; a most unladylike sound. Even Gasur, who no one would ever confuse with an intelligent person, had enough sense to bow his head and retort nothing. "I want to hear nothing from you, neither your advice, nor your excuses or anything else you have to say!"

She glared at Gasur for a few moments before she slowly let her eyes wander over men in the room, from the two captains and the lieutenant over Salir to the two or three council members who were doing their utmost best not to attract any attention and blend in with their surroundings. Reod didn't dare raise his head, but he peered at his lady through his eyelashes and once again thought how much like an avenging spirit she looked, even despite the bright halo of sunlight that surrounded her slender figure. Somehow, the light seemed to be swallowed up by her dark hair and, even more so, by the menacing aura that surrounded her, and neither her lovely face nor her innocent appearance could mask that impression.

After long moments of silence Acalith finally turned around, moved over to the table and sat down in a padded armchair, managing to exude an air of pure menace that impressed even Salir who had served her longest of all. 

"So," she began slowly. "Tell me: Where are my prisoners?" Unsurprisingly enough, there was no answer, and the dark-haired woman shook her head unwillingly. "I am tiring of this, and will ask only once more. Where – are – my – prisoners?"

Gasur, Reod decided, might know their lady more intimately than he, but he was apparently also an idiot. The younger man might not notice or recognise the small, almost undetectable hints, but Reod had known their lady for quite a long time now, and knew when she was serious and when she wasn't. Right now, she was only half a step away from losing her temper completely, and Reod was by no means willing to risk that. It would at least be ugly, if not highly painful and bloody.

"They escaped, lady," Reod replied quietly, doing his best to keep his voice both calm and subservient. "We are not sure, but it appears as if they broke out last night, shortly after the changing of the guards at the third hour. They killed a couple of guards on the first level, hid their bodies in … well," the brown-haired captain stopped for a moment, fumbling for words, "in your study, my lady, and somehow got out of the courtyard. We have ascertained that they are no longer anywhere in the house or on its premises, and all available men are currently searching the town. The commanders are expected to return momentarily."

"I know that, Captain," Acalith nodded, a little more calmly now. "I know it, because one of my handmaidens found their bodies a few hours ago and screamed bloody murder." She turned in her chair and looked at Reod with a small glint of anger in her eyes, and once again the captain realised how much like Gasur the young woman was. "They left the elf lord behind? Lord Erestor?" 

"Yes, my lady," Reod answered softly. "Most likely in order not to burden themselves with him on their escape."

Acalith raised a dark, finely arched eyebrow in either confusion or faint amusement.  
"You don't understand them very well, do you?" She shook her head slowly, calculatingly. "They didn't leave him voluntarily; he made them leave him behind. I know the dear Lord Erestor by now, and he would not want to hinder their escape in any way." The young woman paused for a moment and then waved a hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter. He is here and they are not. That only leaves one question, though: Just _where _are they?"

No one seemed inclined to answer, and Reod sighed inwardly. He knew that he wasn't the most intelligent person ever to grace this earth, but in comparison to everybody else around here, he was a genius.

"We don't know, my lady," he replied after a few seconds, wincing slightly because he knew that, no matter in what light you viewed it, there was no safe answer to that question. "If I were to guess, I would say they left the city."

"How, Reod?" Gasur asked incredulously, apparently having regained his ability to speak. The dark-haired man raised an eyebrow mockingly as he regarded his fellow captain. Had he been a rooster, he would have stuck out his chest and ruffled his feathers. "How should they have got out of the town?"

"I don't know, _Captain_," Reod stressed the other's rank, his fear of Gasur melting away in face of his annoying, overbearing behaviour. The knowledge that Gasur was only a step away from falling from their lady's favour or at least severe humiliation did help some, too. "I, as you will remember, was not the officer on duty last night. You were."

"Thank you for reminding me," Gasur hissed with narrowed eyes. "They can't have escaped. They just can't. Every single town gate was guarded the entire night."

Reod frowned, a hint of unease touching his heart. Gasur did have a point; how would the elf and the ranger have managed to get out of the town? He shuddered inwardly. His feeling for the elven race hadn't changed over the last few weeks, and right now he found himself contemplating the possibility that the elf and his friend had used some sort of dark magic to escape their grasp. It wouldn't surprise him overly much; everybody knew that their kind had abilities and strengths no normal being had any business of possessing. 

"Oh, yes," Acalith commented, the scathing undertone in her voice still easily audible. "And so were all the gates leading from the courtyard to the lower town, weren't they?"

This time, even Reod didn't say anything. There was nothing to say, after all.

"Maybe … maybe they used some sort of magic?" Fosul, Gasur's lieutenant, offered after a moment or two. "Elf magic?"

If Reod hadn't been so busy looking inconspicuous, he might actually have laughed. He might think that Fosul was right and that the elf and the ranger had used dark, otherworldly forces to escape, but he knew better than to actually say it out loud. Lady Acalith didn't believe in anything like ghosts or magic or even the Gods, and even though Reod didn't care about that in the slightest, he knew that she reacted impatient at any sign of superstition. At best.

Just as he had thought, the young woman's face darkened as she turned her head and gave the man a look that should rightly have turned him into a small pile of ashes.

"If you have nothing more to offer than absurd, superstitious nonsense, I would advise you to be silent, Lieutenant. Elves may be strong and fast, but they can't turn into thin air! The ranger certainly can't, not any better than you. I do not remember asking for your opinion, by the way, and should you speak out of turn again, I will gladly see to it that you are reminded of your place. Do you understand?" 

The fair-haired man nodded mutely, apparently trying to turn into thin air himself, and Acalith turned back to the two captains and the councilmen in front of her.  
"Well?"

Reod and Gasur lowered their heads in a rare gesture of concordance, but Salir returned her look evenly, his eyes glimmering with an emotion Reod couldn't identify.  
"The guards must have been inattentive, my lady. I do not wish to place any blame," the pointed look he shot a clearly seething Gasur stood in stark contrast to that, "but it would seem that that is the only explanation."

"My guards are not 'inattentive', _sir_," Gasur ground out, sounding as if he was choking on the last word. "They know the price for such derelictions of duty well enough."

Salir smiled benevolently and inclined his head, a harmless gesture that fooled no one. Even Reod, who was notoriously uninterested in political scheming of any kind, decided that, right now, the grey-haired councillor looked about as innocent as a man with a bloody knife in his hand, standing over an equally bloody body.

"If that is so, Captain, and your men are not to blame, then there remains only one other option, doesn't it?" He raised his head again and looked straight at Gasur, cold-blooded calculation in his dark eyes. "If the men did their jobs, it must have been the officers who made the mistake. Is this not so?"

Salir held his breath while he waited for Gasur to arrive at the right conclusion. He knew that he mustn't be too obvious about all this – at least not unless he wanted to wake up (or rather not wake up) one morning with his throat cut – but he simply couldn't resist the temptation to goad the younger man. He had wanted to do it for so long now, and unless Gasur had developed the ability to read minds sometime in the last six months and realised that it had been him who had aided the two prisoners' escape, there was nothing the captain would be able to do against it. Especially not with their lady watching.

He didn't have to wait long either. The outrage he had been waiting for spread on Gasur's face while he was still formulating that last thought, followed quickly by surprise and renewed hatred. Oh yes, Salir thought, allowing himself a small smile. This was almost as sweet as the knowledge that he had made Gasur look like a complete fool.

"Just what," Gasur began in a deceivingly calm voice, "is that supposed to mean?"

"That is rather clear, is it not, Gasur?" Acalith answered for her seneschal, giving the dark-haired captain an utterly uncompromising look. "Salir has a point, though. Your safety measures were quite clearly insufficient, Captain. We will talk about this later, be assured."

She paused for a moment, thus giving Gasur the time to shoot the grey-haired councillor a look so full of venom that it was a small miracle that he didn't collapse on the spot. Salir returned the look, quite unimpressed, but told himself to remain on his guard. There was something in the younger man's eyes, not much more than a vague suspicion, but it was enough. Right now everybody was viewing this as a concatenation of unfortunate incidents, even Gasur, but if he pushed him, the captain just might reconsider. Salir shuddered inwardly. He didn't think that the officer who had ordered his men to leave their posts a little earlier would actually talk, for that he had paid him too well, but then again, Gasur could be convincing. Very much so, especially when he was holding a knife.

Salir returned his attention to their lady as she turned back to him and Captain Reod. Her face was calm once more, reminding not only him of a carved, beautiful marble statue. The sun had disappeared once more, dipping the room into a dreary gloom, and in the sparse light the contrast between the young woman's white skin and her dark, almost black hair was once again striking.

"As unfortunate as this whole incident is, though," Acalith went on, either indifferent or oblivious to her two subordinates' silent conflict, "it is no complete catastrophe – yet, that is. As long as we have the dear Lord Erestor, everything is not lost."

"If Captain Gasur manages to get him to talk, that is," Salir commented snidely.

Gasur's face became even darker, but he forced himself to smile at the older man. It turned into more of a grimace, and a rather hateful one at that. In fact, it looked more like the facial expression of a warg right before it jumped at you and tore out your throat, Reod decided.

"I would be most glad to … demonstrate a few of my methods for you. _Sir_."

"Enough!" Acalith's voice cut through the room with the force of a whip, and both men were intelligent enough to heed her order. There were not many people who actually argued with Lady Acalith when she was in this particular kind of mood. "Captain Gasur will succeed. He is, after all, a professional, am I not correct, Captain?"

"You are, my lady," Gasur retorted with a subservient bow into Acalith's direction and a hateful look into Salir's. "As I promised you earlier, I will make sure he tells you everything you want to know. Eventually." 

"Yes, _eventually_," Salir commented softly, as if to himself. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

Acalith only gave him a single look that impressed upon him the consequences of continued loquacity and turned back to Gasur and Reod.   
"I want them taken care of. If they manage to get to Aberon, they could compromise the whole plan, even though they can't know much." 

"And no one would believe them if they did," Gasur nodded. "Who would believe an elf and a ranger if they accuse one of the most respected councilmen of being in league with us?"

"Not many," Acalith agreed coldly. "Some might, however. It takes only two or three suspicious council members and the whole plan falls apart." She narrowed her eyes at the two soldiers in front of her. "I will not allow that. I want them eliminated. Now."

"Yes, my lady," Reod inclined his head obediently. "As soon as the commanders are back…"

He didn't get to finish the sentence, however, since a knock sounded on the wooden door behind them. At Gasur's nod one of the two guards standing left and right of the door posts opened the door, and a man entered the room, looking as if he would rather be giving Sauron advice on interior decoration than be here. Reod recognised him as one of the commanders who had conducted the search of the city; it appeared that he had been chosen to report to them. A very small part of him grinned inwardly. Judging by the other man's expression, he had drawn the short straw.

"My lady," the man stopped a few feet away from them and bowed deeply, either meaning it as a gesture of respect or in order to put some distance between him and his superiors. Either way, it was a smart choice, especially considering his next word.

Gasur frowned at him, the other man's discomfort apparently raising his own mood and self-confidence. He really was quite a despicable person, Reod decided detachedly.  
"Speak, Commander," Gasur ordered curtly. "If you have something to report, speak up!"

The man took a deep, calming breath that failed to have any effect at all and bowed his head.  
"They are not in the city, sir."

Acalith's eyes narrowed, and her anger was almost tangible.   
"_What _did you say?"

"The two of them are not in the city, my lady," the man repeated softly.

"You are sure about this?" Reod asked sharply. If the man was right – and he rather suspected he was – then they were all in serious trouble. Very serious trouble.

"Yes, sir," the man replied. "We have been searching for hours now. We couldn't find any traces of them inside the walls."

Gasur opened his mouth to say something, most likely in order to shift the blame on someone else, when the full implication of the other man's words seemed to register in his brain. He shot Salir a cold look, almost as if daring him to say something, before he returned his gaze to the pale commander who obviously wished he hadn't got out of bed this morning.  
"'Inside' the walls? What are you saying, man?"

"One of my men found a trail, a bit away from the East Gate," the commander answered hesitantly. "No more than two people, on foot and in a hurry. It's rather faint, though. I would say it's at least a day old, but our tracker disagrees. He says someone disguised it, and did it very well, too. We didn't have the time to follow it for long, but from what we can say, it heads north-east."

There was a brief, tense silence, before Reod took a deep breath and summed up the other man's words.  
"To Aberon."

"Uhm … yes, sir."

Reod nodded his head, but knew better than to say anything. Lady Acalith would decide what would be done, and she didn't appreciate being advised unless she asked for it. The young woman didn't say anything immediately, but then she nodded to herself and looked up.

"The elf lord can wait," she announced decisively in a tone of voice that brookedno argument. "You, Captain," she nodded at Gasur, "will take your men and see to it that this little problem is eliminated. I don't care what you do, or how many men you need, but I want you to make sure that they don't get to Aberon, or anywhere else, for that matter. Understood?" 

"I understand, my lady," Gasur inclined his head. "They have a few hours' head start, but they are on foot, and injured. They won't have had the time to conceal their trail completely. It will be no problem catching up with them. I will not disappoint you."

"I hope so, Captain, for your sake," the dark-haired woman told him, her tone of voice making it very clear that she was not joking. "I seriously hope so. My patience will soon be at an end."

She got to her feet and gave the men in front of her a last, menacing look.  
"I want them taken care of. Kill them or bring them back with you; I don't care." She began to move over to the door, but then she stopped and turned back, her dark gown swirling around her slender figure. "No, that is not correct, now that I think about it. I would very much prefer it if you would kill them."

Gasur merely bowed his head with a thoroughly disconcerting smile, and a moment later she and Salir were gone, leaving behind a lingering sense of menace that dissipated only very slowly. The dark-haired captain looked after her for a while, his face unreadable, before he turned back to the others, his gaze wandering over Reod before it came to rest on his lieutenant who had for the last ten minutes rather successfully pretended to be a chair.

"Gather the men, Fosul. We are going on a little hunt."   
**  
****  
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**  
****

The sun was trying to break through the thick, leaden layer of clouds that was covering the sky, a rather futile attempt as every objective observer would have admitted. It had been raining for most of the day, and since midday the short spells of sunshine had become less frequent and far shorter.

Aragorn, however, was not complaining, at least not about the fact that the sun wasn't shining. It was in fact rather advantageous, because it was making everything harder for their pursuers, which was also a little bit surprising. Nothing had happened to them lately that had been even remotely advantageous, so he was still mildly suspicious. The Valar were a crafty lot, after all, and he wouldn't put it beyond them to lure him into a false sense of security by letting something "advantageous" happen to them. 

The young ranger ran a dirty, shaking hand over his forehead, only serving to add grime to the broad streak of dried blood there, and gave the grey sky a last look before he turned back around. He ducked under one of the small oak saplings that was offering them some cover and knelt down, dimply noticing that he really had to stop doing that or he wouldn't be able to get up again. Considering the way he felt, that might not be such a bad idea. 

Blinking against the dark spots that had suddenly appeared in his field of vision, he shook his head and fixed reluctantly co-operating eyes on the pale face of his friend, who looked only one step away from losing consciousness once again. Which, Aragorn thought darkly, would probably not be such a bad idea either.

"Legolas?" he asked hesitantly, not really knowing whether the elf was simply staring into space or whether he was asleep. "Legolas?" 

The elf didn't answer immediately, but just when Aragorn thought that he had really lost consciousness again he blinked slowly, and some awareness returned to his eyes.  
"Don't … shout," Legolas told him softly. "I hear you." 

Aragorn smiled, but no merriment reached his eyes. If Legolas had been in a little less pain and more aware of his surroundings, he would have seen the hunted, almost panicky expression in the human's eyes.

"I am not shouting," the ranger informed his friend. "The Valar forbid I do something as capitally stupid as that. I have done enough stupid things already." He paused, casting a quick look over his shoulder, and turned back to the elf. "Can you still hear them? Legolas? Are they still after us?"

Even while he was speaking the words, he realised what a horribly stupid thing he had just said. Of course Gasur and his merry men would still be after them; if there was one thing to be said about the other man, it was that he was single-minded and _very_ persistent.

Legolas seemed to be listening for a few seconds, his head cocked slightly to the side, and then he nodded, a gesture full of weariness.   
"Yes. Ten minutes behind us, maybe a quarter of an hour, even though I doubt it."

Aragorn only nodded, neither looking nor feeling overly surprised.  
"You have to remind me of something if we get out of this," he demanded tiredly. "Remind me to never go on a hunt again. Ever. It's sadistic, that's what it is."

Legolas nodded as well.  
"I … I will." He paused for a moment and blinked slowly. "We need to go on."

"In a minute. I need to rest for a while," Aragorn shook his head, realising that he wasn't even lying to his friend.

He might have insisted on taking this short break because he had been worried about Legolas, but he felt ready to drop, too. The pain in his wrist seemed to have even increased over the past few hours, and he was beginning to get seriously annoyed with the hazy, black dots that were clouding his vision now and again. It seemed that exhaustion plus lack of water plus constant stress on top of dislocated and broken bones and a maltreated skull were not a good thing for a human, not even a Númenórean.

Deciding that it was far more rewarding to worry about someone else than about himself, he returned his attention to Legolas, his eyes slowly travelling over the other's cut and bruised body. Most of the visible skin was black and blue, lacerated or burnt, and blood was still seeping through the hastily applied bandage that was nothing more than a thin scrap of clothing. The cut on the elf's throat that hadn't even begun to heal yet only added to his bedraggled appearance, and served to give him the look of a criminal that had barely escaped the executioner's axe. It was a comparison of which Legolas would most definitely not have approved.

"How is your arm?" he asked, his fingers hovering over the blood-stained bandage. "And would you please stop bleeding?"

"I will do my best, Aragorn," the elven prince retorted wryly with a small, pained smile.

"Hmph," the man grunted softly, trying to disguise his concern. Elves could tolerate much higher blood loss than men, but there were limits to everything. After two pints or so things got ugly, even for the Firstborn. "See that you do, my friend. I do not have the time to stitch the wound or something like that."

"With … what?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"With what would you … stitch it? Grass and a pointy stick?" 

"Don't tempt me," Aragorn smiled at his friend. "That should be interesting." He suddenly raised his head, thinking he'd heard something, and decided that they should get going before he became completely paranoid. "Can you walk, Legolas? We need to go."

"Of course I can," Legolas nodded in what he probably thought was a convincing, reassuring manner. In combination with the pallor of his face and his general bloody, bedraggled appearance, the jerky movement of his head was neither. "Help me up."

Aragorn took a deep breath in order to steel himself against the pain he knew was coming and grasped his friend's uninjured arm, pulling him to his feet after several moments. The black spots in front of his eyes suddenly grew bigger and threatened to solidify into a single black sheet that tried to lay itself over his vision, but Aragorn shook his head and blinked them away. He simply didn't have the time to lose consciousness now.

It took at least half a minute until the man had managed to sling his right arm around his injured friend's waist in order to keep him upright, and another few seconds until the raging pain in his broken right wrist had receded to more bearable levels. When they were ready to leave, Aragorn gave the small copse of trees that had sheltered them a last, longing look and began to move, hoping that his sense of direction was still working and that they weren't going in the completely wrong direction. That, he decided with a small, inner grin, would be just the kind of thing the Valar would find amusing, wouldn't they? Well, Tulkas would, that much was sure.

The first few steps caused pure, white-hot agony to flare through his upper body, but after a few feet his body got used to this new, additional discomfort, leaving Aragorn to ponder this extraordinary mess they'd got themselves into this time. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon and resisted the urge to constantly look over his shoulder. He knew that Legolas would hear their pursuers a long time before he would, even in his current state, but that did not really calm the feelings of fear and anxiety that were bubbling inside his chest.

At the thought of the 'Fox', that insane, sick man with the empty and completely soulless eyes, he felt a wave of heated anger pass through him, and he had to remind himself not to tighten his grip on his friend, knowing that it would cause both of them additional pain. He had forced Legolas to stop about half an hour after they had escaped the city, and while he had been treating the long cut on the elf's arm, he had got the chance to take a closer look at Gasur's … handiwork. The dark-haired ranger shook his head against the memory of his friend's wounds and ground his teeth. If he ever got his hands on that man, he would kill him.

By the way things were going right now, that moment wouldn't be too far away. They had known that their trail would be discovered, but he had rather hoped that it would take them a little bit longer. It had been two hours now since Legolas had been sensing the first signs of pursuit, and not much after that he, too, had been beginning to feel definitely ill at ease. That feeling had only become stronger, and by now it was in fact so strong that he felt as if someone had set his skin on fire. He knew that they were being followed, knew that it was only a matter of time until they would be found, and, most of all, knew that they were sitting ducks where they were now.

Aragorn shot his surroundings a dark, faintly disgusted look that it did not really deserve. They hadn't had much of a choice and had avoided the roads, knowing that it would be the first place Gasur and his friends would look, but in the past hours they had begun to keep ever more to the east, feeling the hunters' net close around them. The terrain had become rocky and uneven, with only a little shrubbery and even fewer trees. The ground was beginning to slope upwards, forming rough, jagged cliffs that ran parallel to the riverbed no more than five hundred yards to their right, and their pace that hadn't been all that great to begin with had become even slower.

It had been the only suitable course of action, though, and the only reason why they hadn't been caught up with already. If they were having trouble with the terrain, their pursuers' horses would have even more trouble. It wasn't much, and he knew that the soldiers were still gaining on them, but he was willing to take every small advantage he could get.

The intensity of his unease went up another notch, and Aragorn couldn't help but look over his shoulder after all. There was nothing to see, at least not yet, but he had the very distinct feeling that they were running out of time, and running out of options. They wouldn't be able to hide anywhere, for that the terrain was too barren, and they wouldn't be able to keep up this pace for much longer. Even under normal circumstances it would have been no small feat to escape a group of mounted, armed men, but right now… Aragorn took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. Right now, it was hopeless.

"We will have to think of another plan," he told the elf next to him nonchalantly. "I don't think this one is working very well."

"It has been … working for longer than … than I had thought," Legolas informed him, pausing frequently to gather enough air to speak. "I had expected them to … catch up with us hours ago."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, _mellon nín_," Aragorn retorted, trying his best to sound indignant.

"You are most welcome," the elf answered, attempting some sort of shrug. A second later he frowned, seemed to freeze on the spot and finally turned back to his friend, his eyes wide and not at all surprised. "I hear them."

Aragorn actually needed some time to understand what the elven prince was talking about, his addled mind refusing to co-operate with him, but then the words' meaning finally registered in his brain.  
"How many?"

"I … I cannot tell," Legolas shook his head, his face still frozen in an expression of utter concentration. "Half a dozen perhaps?" His frown deepened and his eyes took on a far-away look as he listened even more intensely. A moment later he looked back at Aragorn, and the man saw that the elf's face had turned even whiter. "Estel – they are in front of us. And they are close."

Aragorn didn't say anything, since he was far too busy trying not to despair here and now. If Legolas was right – and he didn't doubt it for a second – and there was a group in front of them, then that meant that there was a second group of men _behind _them, and maybe another one somewhere in between. If he hadn't been so busy cursing his name, Aragorn would even have given Gasur some credit for his strategy. The man had cornered them like a pair of rabbits, had closed off their escape on three sides and pushed them against the river. It wasn't exactly ingenious, but it was smart. He hadn't thought Gasur was that smart.

"I underestimated him," he said tensely, not having to explain about whom he was talking. "I didn't think he was capable of laying such a trap."

"It wouldn't have been … it wouldn't have mattered," Legolas shook his head, desperately trying to hold on to his train of thought. His thoughts had been become ever more jumbled, and if he didn't concentrate enough, they were slipping out of his grasps like wisps of smoke. "It was only a matter of time."

"I should have disguised our tracks more carefully," Aragorn said bitterly, shaking his head as well. "Maybe then they wouldn't have found us so quickly."

Legolas opened his mouth, most likely to tell him that avoiding capture for more than half a day was actually quite an achievement, but didn't get to say anything. He paused in mid-thought, surprise and fear spreading over his face at the same time at rather impressive speed. A moment later he threw himself to the side, ignoring his protesting body as best as he could and pulling Aragorn with him. The two of them hit the ground with a dull thud that still couldn't drown out the swishing sound of an arrow that passed overhead. The sudden impact stunned them both, but then they were prompted into action by the sound of shouts, somewhere to the left of them.

Knowing that giving in to his body's demands and simply staying where he was would be a very bad idea, Aragorn scrambled to his feet, the pain that raged in his body being held in check by the sudden rush of adrenaline that flowed through his veins. He pulled his elven friend to his feet, once again thanking the Valar for the other's keen senses, and quickly looked around, deciding that he really could have done without this particular sight.

One of the groups had caught up with them, the one whose presence Legolas had detected only minutes ago. There were in fact eight riders, at least as far as he could see. They were just riding around a rocky outcropping to their left, a part of them keeping to the left and another part giving them a wide berth in order to cut them off. Aragorn felt how his heart froze inside his chest. They couldn't keep going, they couldn't try to escape into the direction of the road to the west, and they couldn't go back, not with the second group now only minutes behind them. 

All this passed through the ranger's head in a second, quickly followed by the realisation that they would end up as dead as Smaug if they didn't move, _now_. They were still well out of range of a sword or a dagger, but these men had bows and seemed to know how to use them, too. Taking the only option they had still left, he grasped Legolas' uninjured arm and began to pull him over to the right, into the direction of the Mitheithel.

"Come!"

They had already taken half a dozen steps when Legolas realised what he was doing, apparently still stunned from the painful fall they had taken. For a second he allowed the man to pull him with him, but then he shook his head and tried to shake off his hand, ignoring the small voice at the back of his head that told him that he would collapse should Aragorn really let go of him.

"What in the name of Varda Elentári are you _doing_, Aragorn?"

"Saving our lives," the man retorted curtly, unconsciously ducking his head as another arrow missed them by inches. "We can't fight them. We have one sword and one dagger, and nothing more. We can't fight them." 

"I won't keep running," Legolas shook his head heatedly, ignoring the sudden spell of dizziness that hit him at the quick movements. He found it hard to follow his friend's words, and even harder to understand just what the man wanted from him. "I will not die like a cornered rat, trying to hide under a rock!"

"Who said anything about dying?" Aragorn frowned as he almost lost his footing on the uneven, stony ground. "I will most certainly not die, and…"

He stopped in mid-sentence, sliding to a stop and managing to halt Legolas' momentum just in time to prevent him from falling over the cliff's edge that had suddenly appeared in front of them. He stared at the drop at his feet and the churning, turbulent waters of the Hoarwell at least forty feet below them, before he slowly turned his head and looked at the steadily advancing men behind them. They weren't even running to catch up with them, apparently well aware of the fact that their prey was cornered and wouldn't be able to escape.

"Maybe I was wrong," Aragorn admitted evenly.

Legolas was far too preoccupied to even think about protesting, and once again tried to shake off his friend's steadying hand.   
"Let got of me, Aragorn. If they want to kill me, they are most welcome to try."

"They will, stubborn wood-elf, they will," the man assured him darkly, his eyes darting frantically from left to right. He seemed to come to a decision, for he raised his head and gave Legolas a quick look. "Jump." 

"What!"

"Jump," Aragorn repeated, and grasped the elf's sleeve more firmly as another arrow came far too close for comfort. "Jump! Now!"

"I did something like this once before, and it didn't work out very well," Legolas shook his head. He was feeling rather strange right now, namely rather hot and disconnected from what was happening around him, and Aragorn wasn't making much sense, but one thing he knew very well was that he wouldn't keep running, and he wouldn't go down without a fight. "Let me go. I will not die like a cowering orc."

Aragorn shook his head, realising that Legolas wasn't thinking straight at the moment. He once again looked behind them, hoping for a stroke of last-minute inspiration. None was forthcoming, and so he merely turned back around, a rueful expression on his pale face.  
"I am sorry, but we don't have time for this. Forgive me." 

Before Legolas could even figure out what the man meant, he felt Aragorn's hand let go of his sleeve. The next thing he felt was a rather hard push from behind, and a second later he was flying over the edge of the cliff, plummeting into the frothingstream.

Aragorn barely waited for half a second, not even feeling an arrow graze his already wounded shoulder, and with the realisation that Legolas would undoubtedly kill him for this he jumped after his friend.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend_

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•winces• Nope, Legolas will NOT be happy about that. The fact that he wasn't acting very rationally either is not going to impress him much, I fear... •g• Anyway, if everything goes according to plan (•tired sigh• When does it ever?), I should be able to go back to my former posting schedule. The exams are still some weeks away, and I just have lots of papers to write. So, the next chapter should be here on Tuesday or Wednesday, and no, I am not expecting you to believe that. I wouldn't either, I guess. •g• Still, reviews are, as always, much appreciated, loved and cherished!

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**Additional A/N:**

Invisigoth3 - Well, no, I don't really hate the two of them. You guys are slightly more important, though. I mean, really, you provide me with lots and lots of lovely reviews, and what do Aragorn and Legolas do? Give me nothing but trouble, try to escape all the time AND refuse to shut up! Serves them right, I'm telling you... •g• I am glad that I managed to surprise you, btw. I would hate to become predictable. •g• Thanks a lot for your review!  
**Ali64** - •cringes• I •was• back. Kind of. Not really, though. Sorry. And you're right, of course, Legolas should stop having that inner monologue all the time. I've been telling him the same thing for ages, but does he listen to me? No, of course not, stupid wood-elf that he is... •g• And I'm sorry, what? Isál should have more faith in a son of Elrond? •shakes head incredulously• Really, would you? I mean, look at them: They're walking, talking catastrophes! They can't go anywhere without people trying to kill them/their companions/family members/pets/etc.! Thanks for your patience, and I DID beat the phone company in the end. It was an accident, I guess, but still. •g•  
**HarryEstel** - •thoughtfully• You know, you might be right about that. The Valar get bored, too, I guess, and Elrond's and Thranduil's reactions are just SO much fun. •evil grin• They don't know how amusing they are, do they?  
**Cosmic Castaway** - Of course they have bad luck; the Valar hate them. Well, that's not completely true, but my alter ego hates them, or rather likes to make their lives miserable. So does Jack, btw. •evil grin• And I know I'm long overdue - again, I might add - but I really couldn't have updated sooner without a lot of trouble. FF-net never accepts a document right away and I always have to re-format it, and doing all that in an internet café ... no, I don't think I'd have enough patience for that. •g• Thanks a lot for pushing me down the stairs, btw. It's nice to know I'm being loved. •g•  
**Evergreene** - •g• Glad you liked that particular image! I really can picture it, though: Elrond taking an incredibly thick book and... •winces• Ah, poor Legolas. Should have seen that coming, though. •evil grin• It's great to hear that you like my insane little stories, thanks a lot for your review!  
**Sanarylle** - I'd have taken the valium, trust me. I would have been able to cope with being internet-less, or phone-less, but all at once! I know I should have bought a mobile phone ages ago, but I just hate those bloody things. •grr• Well, I managed to survive the ordeal, somehow. Don't ask me how. •g• You might be right, you know. They might be becoming ever more sarcastic. I wonder why? •characters stare at author evilly• I really have no idea... •g• And ... wow. I guess no one has ever compared my style of writing with PJ's set designs. I mean that seriously, btw. Thanks a lot. •huggles• That's very flattering. And Isál WILL discover that Elvynd's still alive - if he manages to survive this story, that is. Poor elf, he doesn't really know what he's getting himself into... •evil grin• Ah, that's his problem, I guess. Yes, I'm sadistic. Thank you very much for your long review! •huggles•  
**Ainu Laire** - You live in a big white room with semingly no end? That's ... interesting. •g• I'm sorry for not updating any sooner. But there's lots of Aragorn in this chapter, so I hope you'll be pacified. •g• LOL, a mail-elf! I wish we had one of those, too! We only have a normal postman, and a bad one at that. And I feel for you. I really do. I don't know what I'd do if my Aragorn were to be taken hostage by Mary-Sues! The horror! •shudders• Don't give in to their demands, though. You can negotiate with lawyers, terrorists and teachers, but NEVER with Mary-Sues! They'll steal your soul and turn you into one of them, that's worse than death!  
**Red Tigress** - Hmm, now that I see it like that, it seems to me as if describing the process of a turn in four paragraphs isn't all that great... Thanks for telling me it's okay, but still - I think I'll have to try and avoid things like that in the future. Looks a little odd, doesn't it? •g• And you could be right, you know. Maybe the Valar don't hate them. They just might like to see them up to their necks in trouble. Lots and lots of it. •g•  
**Dae** - Let me think, what will happen when Elrond, Glorfindel, Celylith and Elladan arrive at Aberon? Elrond: Pain. Glorfindel: Bloodshed. Celylith: Broken bones. Elladan: Death. Ah yes, I guess that's about it. Don't you? •g• Your prediction is ... interesting. Not entirely accurate, but interesting. I guess you'll just have to wait and see ... sorry about that. My alter ego likes to keep everyone else in the dark. •g• And your other guess was quite good, you know. Really quite good. I can't say more, of course, but that might be quite close. •g•  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - You really thought I'd vanish just like that? Really? •sniffs• I'm hurt. You should know me better: I would write the story till the big finale, write a a cliffy, leave everyone's life hanging in the balance and THEN I'd vanish. •shakes head• Honestly. •g• No, j/k, I would never not finish a story. I am far too much of a perfectionist for that. •g• You're not really close with your guess, I fear, but there WILL be a cliffy. I figured you deserve one, for being so patient. •smiles•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Well, as I said, people here don't believe in free internet access at libraries. Something about the economy being on its last legs and no one having any money. •grimaces• Would be too easy, too. And I didn't think you were nagging. Not even for second, really. •g•  
**Madam Librarian** - Hmm, yes, that's essentially my excuse. Sorry. •g• And I never said that RL is more important than FF. You assumed! •g• It's just that RL has the tendency to come back and bite you in the a•• if you ignore it too much. •winces• It never fails. I am sorry about Erestor, though. There won't be a scene in this chapter, and none in the next chapter either. I'm really sorry, but it's getting too long again and I really have to start wrapping everything up. I might be able to squeeze in a small scene in ch. 26 or 27, but I wouldn't count on it. Sorry again. •rueful smile• And please, PLEASE don't apologise for criticising the chapters. I am not a professional writer, have never had lessons of any kind and English is not my first language. There are lots of things that sound awkward or are just plain wrong, and I thank you for pointing them out to me. It would be far worse if I make mistakes and no one tells me about them! How am I supposed to learn? Oh, and thank you very much for that pic! You drew that? Really? I am deeply impressed - I am someone who can't even draw a house. Sad, but true. •g•  
**Slayer3** - LOL, yes, they escaped. Kind of, at least. Who'd have thought? •g• Oh, there is an "I love Elrohir and Elladan fanclub"? About time, too! With all the attention Aragorn and Legolas are getting, they've been ignored by most people. Poor little elfsies. •huggles them• Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure**- Oh, I can be blamed, that's for sure. I guess I should have told the phone company about my intention to move sooner, then I'd have been reconnected after five weeks, not six. I guess. I can't be sure, since they hate me and want to drive me insane. •g• You had a wonderful idea, though: I will send Gasur to have a little ... "conversation" with the phone company. See how THEY like it! •evil cackle• And don't worry, you really aren't driving me crazy. I understand your frustration, and really must thank you for your patience!  
**Bookworm13** - LOL, thanks a lot. Now I know •exactly• what "update" means. I promise to do my best to follow aforementioned definition. I am sorry for keeping you waiting for so long, and you have every right to be impatient. Once again, sorry for that and thanks a lot for your review!  
**Ithil-valon** - Mhahahaha, say no more! Of COURSE things can get worse for them! Please note that the following chapters are all •your• fault. •g• No, j/k, they are my alter ego's. Maybe Jack's, too, but only a little. The whole cliff thing is not to be blamed on her. •g• But really, you should know that, no matter how bad a situation is, it can always get worse. ALWAYS. Istn't that right, you two? •Aragorn and Legolas nod tiredly• See, even THEY get it now. •g•  
**Mystic Girl1** - Nah, kann nicht sein. Ich halluziniere. •kneift sich selbst in der Arm. Review ist immer noch da• Ist es wahr? Du? Hier? Na, das ist doch mal 'ne nette Ueberraschung! •knuddel• Schoen, dich mal wieder zu "sehen"! Ich hatte mich schon ein paar mal gefragt, was mit dir passiert ist... •g• Aber wenn du Problemen mit der Telekom hattest, kann ich das absolut verstehen. Ich bin zwar bei Arcor, aber das macht alles nur noch schlimmer. Arcor braucht immer noch die Unterstuetzung und Erlaubnis der Telekom, und warum sollten die sich 'nen Bein fuer Nicht-Kunden ausreissen? •schuettelt Kopf• Gott, ich hasse die Telekom. •g• Ich kann mir uebringens gut vorstellen, dass die Telekom von Orks gefuehrt wird. Wuerde einiges erklaeren, oder? •g•   
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - Ah, yes, the dreaded question. I really don't know how long it's going to be, sorry. I guess about as long as TWIN, but I really can't be sure. Ask me again in two chapters or so, then eveything should be a lot clearer. I hope. •g• You're right, of course, my alter ego does want them to be recaptured (she IS evil, after all). The plot, however, disagrees, and I have learnt never to argue with your blood. It's just counterproductive. •g• LOL, yes, Elrohir is VERY modest. Then again, he's an elf, so he KNOWS he's beautiful. Bloody arrogant race, elves. •g• You're throwing books at your sister? In fun? Riiiiight...  
**Marbienl** - So you're having withdrawal symptoms already? That's ... interesting. Disconcerting, but interesting. •g• As I said in the A/N, I'm not in Spain. In this country you don't get a place at a foreign university and they let you go just like that! You have to fill in forms, and more forms, and prove that you can speak the language, and have somewhere to stay, and will come back again, and know which classes you'll be taking, and... I could go and, but I won't. It's too depressing. •g• LOL, I like "Peredhil Law". Has a nice ring to it. •g• And I'm sure that Elrohir would tell you he's divine if you asked him - stupid elf that he is. •g• Thank you for you email, btw. I am not in Spain, no, but I would have liked a little snow. I haven't built a snowman for ages. •g•  
- Hmm, that name disappeared. It appears that FF-net doesn't only hate me... Ah well, whatever. It's very nice to hear that you liked the conversation between Isál and Elrohir. I thought Isál needed some cheering up, but it didn't really work out that way. •shrugs• It happens all the time, so I'm not overly surprised. •g• I have to admit that there won't be any Elrond and/or Erestor scenes in the near future. Sorry. We DO have a cliffy, though! Great, huh? Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Viggomaniac** - Ah, well, no. Nothing nice happened to me. I didn't expect that, either. My phone company hates me; that's the reason why they won't give me a DSL port. I HATE ISDN! It's so horribly slow! The most simple download takes •ages•! •calms down• Sorry. I should be grateful to have internet access at all, I guess, and it's a lot faster than a 56 K modem. And I have to say I'm very impressed! Translating a story is always hard, and from German to English at that... German is a horrible language, and rather hard to translate to English. That's what I think, anyway. It's a lot easier for me, because I don't translate my stories. I have never read the books in German either, and always watch the movies in English. I have only seen FOTR in German once, with my sister, and boy was that horrible! I mean, come on, "Duesterwald" is supposed to be Mirkwood? It's an accurate description, but it sounds so stupid! I couldn't stop laughing, and we were almost kicked out of the cinema. •g• And don't worry, I know that you would never harass me. Nope, not you. •g•  
**Dreamzone** - Oh. •blushes• Well, thank you! It's very nice to hear that you like my stories, even though your review is beginning to give me delusions of grandeur. Ah well, that's not too bad either. I'm insane already, so it can't hurt. •g• Thank you very, very much for your kind words. It's always great to hear that there are people out there who like my sense of humour. •g•  
**Maerz** - Uhm. Ja. Was soll ich sagen? Sorry? •nervoes• Du hast auch 'ne Katze? Wie schoen! Ich hab vier, toll, nech? •g• Nein, es tut mir wirklich leid. Ich bin bei Arcor, und die brauchen nun mal die Bestaetigung der Telekom, wenn man umzieht. Wir haben jeden Tag vom Handy aus angerufen, ob die Bestaetigung da war, und das war natuerlich nie der Fall. Warum sollten die sich auch ein Bein fuer Nicht-Kunden ausreissen? Es war auf jeden Fall sehr nervenaufreibend. Tut mir leid, dass ihr alle so lange warten musstest, aber glaub' mir, es war VIEL schlimmer fuer mich. Ich gebe ja offen zu, dass ich internetsuechtig bin... Wie dem auch sei, ich hoffe, ich habe dich jetzt nicht endgueltig in die Arme der Koffeinsucht getrieben. Hier ist auch schon das naechste Kapitel! Ging doch richtig schnell! •g•  
**SeventhSpanishAngel12** - LOL, yes, loungeitis sound just right. I have to go and ask my doctor about it. Maybe he can help ... I doubt it, though. •g• Then again, I might have been bitten by a tsetse fly, who knows. •g• You don't have to worry, everyone •will• meet in the end. I guess. Or rather those who make it through this story alive... Yes, I do know that I'm evil and sadistic. •g•

**Well, once again, thank you very much for your patience. You have all been very kind and understanding! •huggles everyone except Jazmin3 Firewing•**


	26. Degrees of Desperation

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

OMG, I had a week from hell - technically speaking, that is. First, my phone company DID provide me with DSL access, for which I am deeply grateful, of course, but it didn't go all that smoothly. Then my router decided that it wanted a break, then my computer informed me that my processor speed wasn't properly adjusted or something like that (which is of course nonsense, because it's been working for two years), and then FF-net decided to have its little face-lift or whatever it was. I have to admit that I'm surprised that, apparently, they have been successful - I was slightly suspicious (well, terror-stricken might be the more appropriate term) at first.

Also, something else has come up: Ali 64 informed me about some new FF-net rules (thanks a lot, btw) - they're getting more complex every month, I swear they do. I can't believe they actually pestered Cassia & Sio until they withdrew all their stories! I have now taken a look at their new "guidelines", but have to say that I can't find anything that would forbid me to reply to reviews. Was it really one of the reasons? I would hate to have to stop replying to them - I love all of them so much, after all! - but I will if I have to. I'll have to cut back my A/N, but I already knew that. So, tell me what you know. •g•

Okay, so, in the spirit of cutting back on my A/N, here's the next chapter. Aragorn realises that he once again did something incredibly stupid, Isál is unhappy, Elrohir is mopey and - in true Elrondion style - antagonises people he really shouldn't be antagonising. Oh, and Legolas is annoyed. And unconscious. •g•

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 26

Even though he'd thought he had mentally prepared himself for what was to come, there was no way he could have readied himself for the intense, mind-numbing cold that washed over him the moment he hit the surface of the Hoarwell. It was not unlike suddenly finding oneself on top of Caradhras in mid-winter. Naked. 

That particular, thoroughly desperate thought was still forming in Aragorn's mind when he plunged into the icy waters of the river. For half a second, he didn't feel anything, neither cold nor anything else, but then the temperature of the frigid water registered in his mind, hitting him with the force of a hammer someone had aimed right between his eyes.

The young man gasped involuntarily, an unconscious reaction to the cold he couldn't have helped anymore than he could have stopped his heart from beating, only to realise that that wasn't the most intelligent thing to do as water filled his nose and mouth. Aragorn did his best not to attempt to gasp for air, knowing that that would be even stupider, and tried to figure out where the surface was.

He could feel the shock at the sudden cold travel through his body, making it hard to think or even feel his body, but after a few moments he realised that the strange bubbles all around him was air that was rising to the surface, and yet a few moments later he decided sluggishly that following them might be a good idea. The man blinked, trying to see anything in the churning, swirling waters around him, and began to struggle toward the surface.

It took him far longer than he would have thought, and while he was swimming toward the surface, he pondered just how long it should have taken him. He had been less than fifty feet above the river, and even considering that he wasn't up to his usual form, he should have reached the surface by now. Then again, he thought lazily while he was trying to move through the cold water, that might also be because someone had exchanged the water for lead. He had never seen cold, liquid lead, so it had to be a new kind, but it was the only possible explanation.

The young ranger was just calmly deciding that he wasn't going to make it when his head broke through the surface, and for a second he was actually too stunned to breathe. His paralysis lasted only a second, though, because the need for oxygen soon became overwhelming and he gasped for air. After a few moments the roaring in his head and the wild pounding of his heart had subsided somewhat, and even while his head was still clearing, he realised that there was something he should be thinking about. Something that had seemed important just a few moments ago, when he hadn't been well on his way to becoming a human popsicle. 

The last remnants of confusion disappeared from his mind in the same moment he remembered just what had been so important. Aragorn froze in mid-motion, once again realised that he had just done something incredibly stupid and struggled back to the surface when he threatened to sink once again. It took him a few moments, having to fight against the current that was pulling him under, the cold that threatened to paralyse his body and his wet clothing. In the end he once again reached the surface, spluttering and inwardly deciding that this would most likely be the last time he would managed to do that. The next time, he'd simply sink.

The frantic, desperate thought that had just come back to him resurfaced with the force of a small tornado, and Aragorn found himself moving before his half-frozen body even realised he was doing it. Raising himself as best as he could in the swirling water, he tried to see anything but water, but no matter how hard he tried, he might just as well have tried to find a mushroom at a hobbit family picnic. The current became stronger, pulling him down the river with increasing force and speed, and the trees and rocks that were moving past him more and more quickly only served to add nausea to his already quite long list of maladies.

Aragorn was still looking about him frantically when his body connected with something that, a second later, turned out to be a large branch that was floating down the river along with him, and the brief but rather painful contact was enough to bring him out of his short spell of panic. Trying to calm his wildly beating heart as best as a man being carried down an ice-cold stream could, he forced himself to gather the shambles of his willpower and concentration.

Legolas couldn't be far, he reasoned, a hope that, somehow, failed to reassure him at all. The elf would have been surprised by his involuntary little jump, but Legolas adapted quickly to new situations. And besides, it wasn't as if the elven prince had never before found himself in sudden mortal peril, was it? Still, the man thought frantically, his friend hadn't been prepared for being pushed into a cold river. He hadn't been prepared for the sudden fall and the subsequent impact, and he had been injured to begin with. If he was lucky, the unexpected cold would have cleared his head enough for him to keep himself above water, but that was about all he could hope for. 

A sudden wave washed over him, dunking him under as effectively as if a giant hand had taken hold of his hair and pushed him beneath the surface of the river. Aragorn spat out the mouthful of water he was swallowing right now, and decided that he had had to get out of the river, now, or he wouldn't be able to help anyone, neither Legolas nor himself. He was already beginning to have trouble feeling his extremities and his thoughts were becoming increasingly sluggish. In a few minutes, the cold would break through his barriers and he would sink like a stone.

Even despite the seriousness of his situation Aragorn smiled inwardly while he was trying to swim towards the bank of the river, after having made sure that it was not the one where Gasur and his friends would be waiting for them. Some years ago he had heard Elvynd tell someone that crossing the Mitheithel anywhere but close to Aberon was either a "rare act of foolishness or megalomania". If the elf were alive to hear about this, he would most likely be hard-pressed to say which was the case here.

After only two seconds, Aragorn was beginning to see what the captain had meant. Spring had arrived late this year, and so the Hoarwell had swollen to twice its normal size. The additional water had caused the current to become swift and treacherous, and there were other things swimming on top the surface, or even below it. Logs, branches and other things the thawing ice had carried away with it were floating all around him, and avoiding the bigger objects was beginning to drain his already quickly diminishing strength.

He had managed to close the distance to the bank to maybe sixty or seventy feet when his eyes that were sweeping over the surface of the water noticed something, causing him to fight twice as hard as before to remain in the same place and not allow himself to be carried further downstream. The man quickly realised that treading water, fighting against the current, blinking water out of his eyes and trying to see anything at the same time was quite impossible, especially when you were feeling like a half-drowned rat. A second later he decided that, unless there was another blond being floating in the Mitheithel, he had just found Legolas.

The elf was somewhere to his right, no more than twenty or twenty-five feet away, but in this kind of current, he might have been on top of Barad-dûr. Aragorn couldn't actually see more than an occasional glimpse of fair hair, but unless he was very much mistaken, Legolas was at least keeping his head above water. Even though he felt as if he was only one step away from turning into an ice sculpture, he felt as if a huge weight had been removed from his chest. That meant that the elf was at least partly conscious, so they might be able to get out of this after all.

Fate didn't hesitate for long to show him that it was never an intelligent idea to say or even think such things. Having realised that calling out to his friend was thoroughly ineffective, with the roaring of the waves drowning out his every sound, he began to swim over to the fair haired elf, constantly praying that his friend wouldn't do something stupid, like maybe start sinking. Aragorn tried to call out to the elf once more, and, this time, Legolas' head was even beginning to turn into his direction and he obviously stopped trying to swim toward the shore to look behind him. Aragorn felt himself relax minutely and he would have sighed in relief if he'd had any breath left, and, just for a moment, he stopped paying his surroundings the attention they deserved.

One moment he was swimming towards his friend, the next he was sinking, desperately trying to shake off the complete, stunned surprise that had taken hold of him. He needed some seconds to realise what was happening, and when he understood that he had got caught in an underwater current, it was almost too late. He was already being pulled under and away, the water swirling wildly around him and pulling at his hair and clothes.

For a few, stunned seconds Aragorn couldn't really remember what he was supposed to be doing, but then he felt how a burning anger began to fill him. He clenched his teeth and began to fight against the current with all his strength, refusing to give in and die just like that. He knew that he would die one day, as did all of his kind, but he intended to postpone that day for quite some time yet. And besides, he would _not _die like this, in a way that was most certainly unbefitting a young lord, elven or of any other race.

The current seemed to think differently, though. It became even stronger, turning into a maelstrom of wildly moving air bubbles and chaotically swirling water, and no matter how strongly the man fought against its pull, he was still carried away with it. Aragorn tried to keep in mind where up was, knowing only too well how disorienting being tossed around like this could be (he had grown up as Elladan's and Elrohir's brother, after all), but he might just as well have tried to teach an orc Sindarin.

He was just about to make another attempt to reach the surface, well aware that his need for air was becoming ever more pressing, when the current even increased, pulling him another six or seven feet deeper and to the side. The thought that the riverbed would have to be somewhere to his right hadn't even fully constituted in his mind when he felt his back collide with something hard, cold and extremely unyielding. 

With a strange sort of calmness he realised that he had apparently just hit some of the protruding cliffs he had seen only a minute ago, but that realisation changed nothing and helped him little. With a grating sound he knew he was only imagining the current pulled him forward, further downstream and along the sharp-edged rocks at his back. Aragorn gritted his teeth and forced himself not to cry out, knowing that it would be a highly stupid thing to do, especially underwater, and would only serve to deplete his already almost exhausted oxygen supply, but this problem was solved for him when he was pulled around a protruding rock formation and his head slammed into the next cliff. 

The impact was hard enough for him to see stars and would have given a troll a roaring headache. Even though it had been disputed several times in the past – most of the time by Elrond and his brothers – he did _not _possess a skull that was as thick and hard as a troll's, and so the young ranger couldn't help but cry out as his head impacted with the stone behind him. The pain was so intense that he didn't even have the strength to fight his body's instinctive reaction, namely to gasp for breath while his body went limp, which, as he quickly found out, wasn't the most intelligent thing to do when being pulled alongside a rock wall by an underwater current.

Water filled his mouth, threatening to choke him and pulling him under with a power he wouldn't have thought possible. The part of him that was still capable of rational thought – a frighteningly small, quickly diminishing part – noted calmly that the fact that the burning in his lungs was lessening simply couldn't be a good sign, but the rest of him found it hard to care. There was a dark cover laying itself over his mind, threatening to envelop him completely, and one by one his senses faded into nothing until he couldn't even feel the sharp rocks at his back or the pain that raged in his head. 

He was just calmly coming to the conclusion that he had indeed been very wrong and that he _would _die, right here, right now, when the water around him began to swirl even more strongly and, more importantly, flowed into another direction. He had far too little air left to try and figure out what was happening, and so he didn't even think it strange that something or someone took hold of the back of his shirt and hauled him upwards.

As suddenly as he had been sucked under the surface of the river he reappeared, gasping for breath and feeling as weak as a kitting someone had rather successfully tried to drown. He tried to understand just what was happening and why he wasn't dead, but his eyes firmly refused to co-operate with him in any way, dark and light spots colouring his vision.

The next few moments or even minutes – he wasn't really sure about it – were nothing more than pure confusion into which he couldn't bring any light at all. His body was far too concentrated on the pain in his head and back to pay his surroundings any heed, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop gasping for breath. Taking deep breaths, however, had the unfortunate side-effect of making him nauseous and increasing the dizziness that was sneaking up on him, and so he was highly surprised to find himself suddenly lying on something rather hard but definitely unmoving. Something like … earth. 

The suspicion that he wasn't any longer in the water was enough for him to try and open his eyes, no matter how strongly his hurting head disagreed with him, telling him most insistently that to see light and movement would be a very bad thing. At first, he couldn't see much, but then he narrowed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate, and so he finally could see what the small, still rational part of him had already been suspecting.

Kneeling next to him, looking ridiculously like a half-drowned rat, was Legolas, his clothes rather torn and his hair hanging in limp, wet strands around his head. There was a large abrasion on his forehead that hadn't been there before, and Aragorn realised that his friend had probably had a little encounter with the very same rocks that had nearly cut him into ribbons. Right now the elf was staring at him in concern, which, in combination with the pallor of his face and the blood that was once again staining the bandage on his arm and dripping from the abrasion on his forehead, was a most interesting sight.

It was, in fact, Aragorn realised wryly, a sight that would have caused even the most battle-hardened orc to turn around and flee. Or start laughing uncontrollably, that was up to the orc in question – or rather its sense for irony and the ridiculous in general.

The object of his scrutiny raised a single, dripping wet eyebrow, for a half-drowned, rather seriously injured person managing quite nicely to convey long-suffering irritation.  
"Drowning. That's a new one."

Under different circumstances, Aragorn would have said something, would have either laughed or told his friend to shut up and help him stand up so they could get as far away from Gasur and his men as possible, but now he did neither. His eyes had been right, as it was quickly turning out, and the dark spots in front of him were growing and beginning to swirl from side to side in a thoroughly unsettling way.

Legolas was either not expecting an answer or was too busy ignoring the way his entire body and especially his wounded arm ached, and so the elf merely shook his head tiredly as he contemplated his human friend's new foolishness.

"I really can't leave you along for a second, can I?" he asked in a tone of voice that suggested that he already knew the answer. He paused for a moment, feeling how the adrenaline that had been singing in his veins until now dissipated and how the various aches and pains began to demand his attention once more, before he returned wide, slightly unbelieving eyes to the young ranger. "You pushed me! You know I will have to kill you for that, don't you?"

All Aragorn could do was nod his head solemnly, which turned out to be the last straw. His mind decided that it had about enough of a person that so blatantly ignored its recommendations, and began to shut down with an inward huff of indignation. Aragorn wasn't even surprised, nor could he blame it. He would have done just the same, he guessed. 

The world was growing darker still, and so the man merely gave his elven friend a blinding smile.  
"Yes."

Then the bleary sunlight was swallowed up by a great, dark wave that washed over his senses, and along with the relief at the swiftly disappearing pain he felt an overwhelming gladness that he wouldn't be awake for Legolas to start telling him what a reckless idiot he was. The elf's threat, on the other hand, didn't concern him overly much.

He would have to get in line, after all, and somehow he doubted that Gasur believed in sharing.   
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If there was something or someone more annoying than an over-anxious, worried and ill-tempered son of Elrond, Isál had most certainly never met or heard of it.

It wasn't that Elrohir was short-tempered, or condescending, or plain infuriating. He was all of it, to a degree that would have made even the most obnoxious dwarf weep with downheartedness. And everyone knew how hard it was to achieve _that _without cutting of their beards or taking away their rocks.

It had most certainly almost caused the councilmen of Aberon to start weeping, but then again, Isál suspected, they would have started weeping with exasperation, or anger, or pure, unadulterated hatred. They hadn't, though, not really anyway, even though he thought he had seen one of the younger men dab his eyes with suspicious frequency. 

The elven captain gave his surroundings a quick look, noted with a mixture of satisfaction and self-consciousness that his second-in-command, Meneldir, was eyeing him in a manner that very clearly said that he knew his captain was at least preoccupied, if not completely absent-minded. If it had been anyone else but Meneldir, he would have been angry at himself, but the commander had known him for long years and had been his second-in-command for most of that time. He was someone he considered a friend, maybe even his best friend now that…

Isál stopped that thought with an abruptness that, a few weeks ago, would have been highly uncharacteristic of him. He would not go there or even anywhere near it, he – would – not. Thinking about Elvynd was not a clever idea, especially not now, especially not here. He forcefully shook his head, satisfied that at least one person around here would keep an eye out for trouble and would make sure Lord Elrohir's head wouldn't explode, and mentally returned to earlier this day.

They had been standing in front of Aberon's council – which, curiously enough, had been missing one very important member, namely Hurag – and their lord had been trying to explain what they were planning. It had been a little hard since nothing he had told the men had been the truth, but still…

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_Toran shook his head slowly from side to side, as if he just couldn't believe what he was hearing or rather if he couldn't believe that his conversational partner thought him to be so daft that he would actually believe what he was saying. Not for the first time Isál thought that the tall man with the mass of blond-grey hair looked like a confused bear that was shaking its shaggy head._

_"I … I have some trouble following you, Lord Elrohir," he finally said slowly, also not for the first time._

_"I find that hard to believe, Master Human," Elrohir retorted in a pointedly calm tone of voice that had served to drive centuries-old elves to the brink of a homicidal rage. "I do not believe I phrased our intentions in any way unclear."_

_"Not as such, no," the man admitted, trading a confused look with his fellow councilmen. To any objective observer, it looked as if he was asking them something like 'He can't really mean that, can he?'_

_"But?" Elrohir prompted, raising a dark eyebrow for good measure. Isál would have been able to name at least fourteen elves who would have been willing and capable to kill the twin right here and now if he had looked at them like that._

_"It is a cultural misunderstanding, then," Toran said in the manner of a man who was grasping at straws. "Even though I have been dealing with your kind for some time now, there are still several aspects of your sense of humour I do not understand."_

_Elrohir's impassive face became dark all of the sudden, and he leaned forward slightly, managing to infuse this simple gesture with a lingering sense of menace._  
_"Trust me if I tell you, Councillor, that you would know if I was joking."_

_One of the other councilmen leaned back in his chair, unconsciously trying to put a little more distance between himself and an so obviously rather unbalanced person, and raised both eyebrows in a gesture of confusion that even looked genuine._  
_"So you really want to … to take a trip? To explore the countryside? Alone?"_

_"No, of course not," the dark-haired elf smiled friendly. He waited just long enough for the men to start to exhale in obvious relief before he added, "I'll be taking my men with me."_

_The man began to deflate slightly, looking as if he had just discovered that he was dealing with a raving lunatic. Isál was wishing fervently that he could say with some conviction that he wasn't._  
_"All your men?"_

_"Yes."_

_"To explore the countryside."_

_"Yes."_

_"In the pouring rain?"_

_"Is there a better time?"_

_The councilman blinked rapidly, apparently trying to think of something that wouldn't cause an immediate diplomatic incident, when Toran raised a hand and caused him to fall silent before he could really begin to speak. Judging by the dark look on the other man's face, that was quite a good thing, too._

_"I think it would be best if we discussed this in private, Master Elf." He turned to his fellow councilmen and fixed them with an insistent stare, as if to tell them to get out of here while they still could. "I will of course inform my colleagues of everything that transpires…?"_

_The three eldest members of the council only had to give the once again stony-faced elf standing in front of them one look before they came to a decision. They nodded as one, looking like old, very serious hens sitting on a long pole, gave Toran a quick look and stood up. They along with the rest of the councillors began to file out of the room amongst a soft rustle of clothing and murmurs of quiet conversation. A few moments later they were gone, and Toran rose as well and turned back to the two elves in front of him._

_"We are alone now, my lords. You and I know that you do not wish to 'explore the countryside'. Will you tell me what you really want to do?"_

_Elrohir arched an eyebrow as if he was seriously thinking about it, but then he simply shook his head and smiled thinly._   
_"No."_

_Sudden anger clouded the man's face, something that didn't surprise Isál in the slightest. He had expected the trader's patience to run out several minutes ago._  
_"Do I have to remind you are an ally of my home, my lord? An ally who is staying under my roof and has shared my bread?"_

_Isál had already half-drawn his sword before he was even realising what he was doing, all-consuming fury colouring his vision a bloody red. How dare this man speak to Elrohir like this, how dare he appeal to his lord's sense of honour after all that had happened here, how dare he speak of things about which he knew nothing!_

_A second later Elrohir's hand closed around the captain's wrist, forcing him to re-sheathe his weapon even though he would have liked nothing better than to allow him to cut the master trader's throat._

_"No," Elrohir said mildly, not even looking at Isál. His eyes remained fixed on Toran's face, and there was something disconcerting and very old flickering in them that even the most unobservant man was bound to notice. "Calm yourself, Captain."_

_Isál did so, though he was still glaring at Toran with enough force to make a bead of sweat appear on the man's forehead, and Elrohir returned his full attention to the blond human._

_"Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Master Toran: We are not allies. Not anymore, and, if you ask me, we never really were in the first place. It is not my place to judge so, however: This will be decided by my father once we return to him. And concerning your little appeal to my sense of honour as my 'host': If I remember correctly, we also shared the bread with your friend Hurag, did we not? Where I come from, that entitles the sacred obligation to protect your guest and keep him from harm, not set fire to the building he sleeps in!"_

_"Are you accusing my fellow councilman of murdering five people, three of them from this town, and that in their sleep, Lord Elrohir?" Toran asked with a calmness he did not feel._

_"Yes," Elrohir answered, his voice utterly uncompromising and very, very cold. "Yes, that is exactly of what I am accusing him. If he had any courage and honour at all and would not hide from me like a cowardly dog, I would say it to his face! And know something else, Master Toran: I know that you are not as clueless as you appear. Your brother, Tibron, assured my father and me that he did not know what happened to our delegation, and we believed him without hesitation. Do you want to know why, Master Toran? It was because he could look us in the eye and say that he knew nothing and that he deeply regretted their deaths. Can you?"_

_"I do not have to prove myself to you," Toran muttered, doing his utmost best to avoid the elf's eyes. "Nor do I have to justify anything."_

_"No, you do not," Elrohir nodded slowly. "But it would most certainly help."_

_"Help!" the man exclaimed, looking at the two elves with wide eyes. "You are the one refusing to be honest with me, my lord!"_

_Elrohir smiled coldly, but it was clear that he was swiftly beginning to tire of this particular conversation._  
_"I am being as honest with you as you are being with me, Master Human."_

_Toran smiled as well, even though he didn't manage to get even close to Elrohir's cold-blooded, rather menacing smile._   
_"Forgive me for saying so, but you are about as helpful and open as a brick wall."_

_"Precisely my point," Elrohir nodded emotionlessly. "You want honesty? I couldn't agree more. Why don't we start with this: Where – is – Hurag?"_

_"I don't know where **Master **Hurag is," the blond man shook his head quickly, stressing the other man's title. Isál didn't have to be a seer to know that the man was lying, and not very skilfully at that._

_"Now who is being dishonest?" Elrohir asked wryly, even though there was not a bit of humour or lightheartedness in his voice._

_The blond trader's eyes darkened; apparently there was a limit even to his patience._  
_"Are you calling me a liar?"_

_"I don't really know," Elrohir answered slowly, turning around to look at Isál. The corners of the dark-haired captain's lips were beginning to twitch slightly, even though Elrohir couldn't tell whether with suppressed merriment or anger. "Am I, Captain?"_

_"Yes, my lord," Isál nodded obediently. "I do believe you are."_

_"Ah well," Elrohir began jovially, turning back to the fuming man in front of him. "It appears you are right after all. I ** am **calling you a liar, Master Human."_

_"Then I believe we have nothing more to talk about," the man announced haughtily. "Go and 'explore the countryside' or do whatever you like. We will most certainly not stop you, but do not expect any of us to send any guards after you!"_

_Elrohir blinked before he leaned forward and placed first one, then two hands on the long table that was separating him from the fair-haired human._

_"Seven people I cared very much about are dead. Two more have disappeared. You and the other members of this council have tried to hinder us in every conceivable way, and are hiding the man responsible. Your guards are the last beings I would want at my back."_

_Toran opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it almost instantly. After several moments of glaring at the two elves the man whirled around and strode out of the room, looking about ready to strangle someone. Preferably someone with dark hair, grey eyes and pointy ears._

_Isál looked after him for a while, but then he shrugged almost imperceptibly and turned back to Elrohir. Telling the other elf that he really could have phrased that more diplomatically would probably be a waste of time._  
_"So we are going, my lord?"_

_Elrohir nodded calmly as he picked up his cloak he had deposited on a chair next to him._  
_"We're going."_

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And so they had, Isál mused darkly. It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed that little interlude – he had, very much so – and having had the chance to see Toran almost suffer a stroke had most certainly been worth it, but … well, but nothing, really. He just had a very bad feeling about this, that was all.

Then again, he admitted to himself wryly, he had been having a very bad feeling for the past few days. This town made him edgy, nervous and generally rather paranoid, and if Elvynd had been right and there really was a benevolent kitten somewhere around here, he most certainly hadn't met it yet. 

He doubted that it existed in the first place, anyway. Elvynd had probably just made it up.

Even despite everything that was going on and the trickle of rainwater that had managed to find its way past his cloak and tunic and was trickling down his back, Isál had to smile darkly. He could almost imagine Elvynd sitting in front of a fire on his way back from a diplomatic mission, thinking of a story that would amuse his friends. That would amuse _him_. 

The dark-haired elf's smile faded as quickly as it had come, and he blinked and swiped his hand over his eyes to brush away the tears that had suddenly welled up in his blue eyes. Valar, how he missed Elvynd, how he missed talking to his friend and seeing him smile that reserved smile of his! How he missed the look of incredulous amusement on his friend's face every time he told him about one of his plans, or the good-natured, long-suffering patience he would display when he told him about Gaerîn and all the reasons why she was the most beautiful elf ever to walk this earth.

But the thought that tormented him most was the fact that he hadn't got the chance to say good-bye, and no chance to tell him that he loved him as much as he would have loved a brother. Elvynd had known it, he was sure about it, but he would have liked to say it to him. He _should _have said it to him before the end, should have told him that nothing would have made him happier than see his friend attend his wedding ceremony, should Gaerîn ever agree to become his wife.

Isál swallowed thickly and forced himself to concentrate on the muddy road beneath his horse's hooves. Just like every other time he had forced his thoughts away from the memories he had of his dead friend, a part of him turned to dark, passionate hatred that chased away the pain and grief that filled his heart. It pulsed through his as if there was a living, breathing thing inside of him, a thing that would only be satisfied once the people that had taken Elvynd from him were dead.

There was, however, another part of him, the part that knew that Lord Elrond had been right, that vengeance wouldn't change anything and wouldn't take away the pain and loss. No matter what he did, and how many people he killed, his best friend would still be dead, and he still wouldn't have the chance to say good-bye to him. Nothing important would change, nothing at all, and that was perhaps the thing that hurt most of all.

"Sir," a voice behind him addressed him softly, and Isál's head all but whipped around. Riding up to him was Meneldir, his second-in-command, his fair hair half-covered by the hood of his cloak even though the rain was barely more than a drizzle now. "Your cinch looks a little loose to me. I think you should refasten it before it comes loose entirely." 

Realising only too well that his commander had just saved him from slipping into a state of self-pity that, in their situation, could very well become dangerous, if not deadly, Isál nodded at the blond elf and carefully spurred on his horse to catch up with Elrohir. He was rather sure that Meneldir had only said that to bring him out of his musings and give him the chance to take a little break to gather his thoughts, but that didn't mean that there really was nothing wrong with his cinch. The last thing he needed was to fall off his horse's back, right into the mud – and that in front of his men.

After a few seconds, he had caught up with Elrohir, but hesitated to address him. If Isál had thought the other elf had been in a bad mood, he quickly discovered that Elrohir was in an even worse mood now. Ever since they had left Aberon a few hours ago Elrohir had been brooding, so much that it was beginning to get on everyone's nerves. It was common knowledge that Elrohir, as the more introvert and quiet one of the twins, could become taciturn and withdrawn from time to time, but this was ridiculous.

Isál gave the dark face of his lord and friend a long look, took a deep breath and swallowed quickly, hoping that Elrohir would only stare at him. He didn't think he would be able to stand one of his patented I-am-not-discussing-this-with-a-moron-like-you-_looks_.  
"My lord? Elrohir?"

The dark-haired twin didn't react immediately, but then he finally turned his head and gave his captain a dark stare that would have made his father very proud.  
"Yes? What?"

"We need to stop for a moment, my lord," Isál said quietly. "A short break. No more than a minute or two."

"We can't stop," the other elf shook his head. "We aren't there yet. Once we see Donrag we can stop; no sooner."

"Elrohir," Isál repeated as calmly as he could, "I need to stop for a second. My cinch is coming loose. The men could use a rest, too; they have enough of this weather now. And so have I, if I'm completely honest." 

"What else was I supposed to do?" Elrohir snapped at him. It was highly unusual for him to snap at others like this, and a testament to his frayed nerves. "Stay there, in Aberon, where half of the population hates us and the other one plans our most gruesome deaths? Tell me, Captain, what else was I supposed to do?"

"I did not mean to criticise you, my lord," the dark-haired elf tried to assure him, only one step away from urging his horse backwards and raising his hands to appease the other. "If I have offended you in any way, I am sorry."

Elrohir stared at him for a second before he slowly shook his head regretfully.  
"No, Isál. I am sorry. I should not have spoken to you like that."

"No," Isál agreed calmly. "You shouldn't have, but I understand. Two minutes?"

"Yes, my friend," Elrohir inclined his head minutely. "I think we can afford to lose two minutes. Donrag will still be there, unless it grows legs and walks away."

"Well, if it does, we'll know that Estel and the prince were there. Total insanity is a by-product of any of their stays."

"True," the twin smiled thinly as he brought his horse to a stop and gestured the warriors to do the same. "How any of us managed to survive Estel's teenage years is still beyond me."

"We were lucky," Isál announced solemnly while he carefully dismounted, gave the road a quick look and began to inspect his cinch. He allowed himself to dwell on those particular memories for a short while, carefully guarding himself against other, unwanted memories that might try to break through his carefully erected defences. "Very lucky."

Elrohir didn't say anything to that and just kept staring at the road in front of him, as if he could speed up their journey this way. He sighed softly, once again wishing with all his heart that Elladan were here. Not a second passed that he didn't, actually, but right now he missed his twin so fiercely that it actually hurt. Just to see him would calm him somehow, just like it had done since they had been children, and besides, Elladan always knew what to do. He was a lot like their father in that regard, decisive and headstrong and unable back down or take no for an answer.

The dark-haired twin sighed again. Elladan might have known what to do, but he didn't. He realised that he was acting out of desperation, a knowledge he did not cherish at all. Glorfindel had taught Elladan and him well, and very high on the golden-haired elf's list of criminally stupid things to do was allowing desperation or fear to rule you. 

_'Never allow your emotions to choose your course of action for you,'_ the elf lord would tell them, countless times and over and over again. _'Never. You will lose every time – your freedom of choice, if you are lucky, your lives, if you are not careful. Listen to your heads, young ones, not your hearts.'_

When he had been younger, he had thought he understood what the older elf meant, thought that it was only logical. Now however, after his mother's capture and oh so many other events, he knew that it was neither logical nor easy. Riding to Donrag to see what they could find out might be a desperate course of action, but he honestly couldn't see any other way. He wouldn't stay in Aberon and stare at the walls while he could do something, however ill-advised it might be.

Elrohir thought about that again and shook his head, wincing inwardly. If Glorfindel had heard that, the golden-haired elf would have had his head on a platter. Or his heart. Or … other parts of his body.

A voice behind him interrupted his inner monologue, and he turned in the saddle, fully expecting to see Isál who wanted to inform him that they were ready to go on. Instead of one elf he saw two, however, both looking torn between confusion and suspicion. Isál was looking at his fair-haired companion with narrowed eyes, as though he didn't know what to make of the news the other had just brought.

"What is it?" Elrohir demanded to know, a curious feeling beginning to spread inside of him. It wasn't dread, not exclusively, and neither was it hope. "Isál? Meneldir?"

The two other elves turned slightly to meet his gaze, and after a nod from Isál the blond elf began to speak, still looking slightly confused.  
"One of the men led his horse over to the edge of the road to let it graze while we waited, my lord. He … he found something."

Controlling the wave of impatience that swept over him, the twin forced himself to nod.  
"I see. What did he find?"

"A set of tracks, my lord," Meneldir answered. "Leading away from the road, to the East."

A dozen possibilities shot through Elrohir's head, and he barely noticed that he was dismounting and pressing his reins into the hand of one of the warriors.  
"Show me."

Meneldir dutifully turned around and began to lead them down the road, past most of their warriors to where another elf was standing, holding the reins of his horse and studying the muddy ground with rapt attention. He barely looked up when his superiors joined him, his eyes still fixed on the faint, almost undetectable imprints of hooves on the ground.

No word was spoken while the four elves studied the tracks, and finally Elrohir lifted his head and fixed his companions with a slightly questioning stare.  
"A group of human riders. Eight, maybe ten. They were in a hurry."

"I agree, my lord," the warrior nodded without looking up. "They must have passed through here not too long ago. If it had still been raining heavily then, we wouldn't be able to see anything now since the tracks would have been washed away."

"The rain stopped … what, two hours ago? Two and a half?" Isál asked, raising a dark brown eyebrow. "Shortly after we left Aberon, I think."

"Yes," Elrohir nodded quietly. "It can't have been longer than three hours, at the most." He paused for a moment before he looked up and frowned at Isál and his commander. "Now what would a group of horsemen be doing on the road, in the middle of nowhere, in the rain? There is no market, neither in Donrag nor in Aberon."

"They came from the south, my lords," the warrior spoke up again. "From Donrag, I would think. They were travelling on the road, but decided to turn away from it and make for the Mitheithel."

"Why would they do that?" Meneldir wondered aloud.

"A good question, Commander," Elrohir nodded thoughtfully. "A very good question. I think we should go and see what we can find out. Don't you agree?"

The three other elves nodded instantly, interest and curiosity kindled in their eyes. Isál was already calling for his best scouts while Elrohir made his way back to his horse, hardly noticing the lingering sense of excitement that hung in the air. It appeared that the warriors were eager to do something to keep their minds occupied, and following a mysterious trail sounded at least as interesting as observing a human town.

Elrohir's frown deepened as he thought about the trail they had discovered. It could be nothing, he tried to tell himself, maybe nothing more than a group of travellers who had got surprised by the bad weather and had decided to take shelter somewhere. It didn't have to mean anything.

And yet, he admitted to himself while he took his horse's reins from the warrior and began to lead it back the way he had come, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow connected to Aragorn's and Legolas' disappearance.

He just did not know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and neither did he know if he was truly ready to find out.   
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Consciousness was slowly returning to him, something to which he had not consented, by the way. If he'd had his way, he would have remained in the comforting, very painless darkness forever. Well, not exactly forever, but for a century or two, until his head had stopped exploding into countless ragged pieces.

Aragorn frowned inwardly, knowing that there was something wrong with that train of thought. It took him several long moments to figure out the problem: If the darkness he was floating in was completely painless, his head shouldn't do its best to burst like a swollen bullfrog. The man winced. That thought hadn't been the brightest idea; now he didn't only have a raging headache, he was also beginning to feel nauseous.

No, that wasn't completely correct, he amended a moment later. The nausea seemed to be owed to the fact that he was moving, or rather being moved. He was rather sure that his head was hurting because it was swinging from side to side, or maybe because he was hanging upside down. No, he wasn't completely sure about that. He might not actually be hanging upside down; he couldn't figure out where up was. 

This felt familiar, somehow, as if he had had the same problem not too long ago, but he really couldn't be bothered to think about that. One, because he was rather sure that he didn't know, and two, because the person who was obviously carrying him chose this moment to collapse. He couldn't blame him – he didn't even have the strength to open his eyes, so he certainly didn't blame anyone for not having the strength to carry him – but that didn't alter the fact that his body hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

He had thought it impossible (or at least highly unlikely) that his headache could yet increase, but he was quickly shown that he was mistaken. His skull touched the ground none-too-gently, bouncing against something rather hard, and fire tore through his mind, setting his every thought ablaze. There was another, less intense pain in his shoulders and back, but it faded into complete insignificance in comparison with the agony in his head.

That was, however, only mildly comforting, and it took quite a long time for the pain to abate to more bearable levels. He waited for several long, long moments for it to diminish further before he accepted that it wouldn't get any better, and with an inner curse that would have shocked even the twins (who, after all, were responsible for most of the swearwords he knew) he struggled to open his eyes. He didn't really know why he wanted to do that – most likely so he could find a way to knock himself out again. Headaches he could stand, but this was something else entirely.

At first, he couldn't see much except muted colours and large, shapeless blobs of light and dark. That was probably a good thing, too, because this way his eyes had some time to get used to the comparative brightness that soon began to pierce his brain and made him feel as if someone was jamming huge, white-hot pokers into his brain. After having scrambled everything around for a little while, of course.

After several moments, he finally began to make sense of what he was seeing, even though he still couldn't get his vision to sharpen or his eyes to focus. There was something seriously wrong with him, and if he'd had a little more time, he would most likely also have figured out what, but before he could even begin contemplating that particular thought, his eyes that were still not working overly well came to rest on something to his left. Something that was lying on its side in what could only be called a crumpled heap, utterly motionless. He couldn't really see what it was, but _something _was familiar about it.

Aragorn's brow wrinkled, both because of the pain that was raging behind it and because he was desperately trying to figure out what or whom exactly he was seeing, when a soft, almost inaudible moan could be heard. The sound hardly touched the air before it was bitten off again, and yet it was enough for a wave of memories to wash over him, having about the effect of an ice-cold bath or a punch in the gut.

Gasur's men, pursuing them. The desperation that had consumed him when he had realised that they wouldn't be able to escape. The arrows, zipping past them and forcing him to make a decision he would never have contemplated otherwise. Icy water, closing over his head and pulling him under, the inability to draw breath and then, in the end, the fatalistic acceptance of his impending death. Legolas' hands that pulled him upwards, towards light and life and out of the water that fought so hard not to give him up. Legolas' white face hovering above his, red blood dripping down his cheek and staining his ripped clothes a dark crimson.

That memory more than anything else prompted him to start moving, and with fierce worry coursing through his veins he managed to sit up to try and close the distance between himself and the being that lay motionless to his left. It took him only a few seconds to realise that he wouldn't be able to do anything but crawl, but the severity of the situation and the fear that pulsed through him with every quick heartbeat were enough to make him forget about this indignity.

Mere moments later he reached the crumpled form of his friend and even while he was turning the elf onto his back, he realised that it was a miracle that he had managed to carry anything, least of all a man who would have been made heavier by his dangling limbs and water-soaked clothing. No, he corrected himself almost instantly. It was a miracle that Legolas was still amongst the living in the first place.

Aragorn's eyes widened slightly when he had managed to turn his friend onto his back, and not only because the elven prince had managed to acquire even more bruises and abrasions since the last time he had seen him. They were mostly on his hands and forearms; it appeared that the little fall they had just taken had not been the first one. The man shook his head inwardly, knowing full well that really shaking it would be a very, very stupid idea. Just why had that stubborn elf moved at all, let alone tried to carry him?

He knew the answer to that question, of course, and he also knew that Legolas was not stupid or irresponsible. The elf knew the limits of his body, and if he had pushed himself this hard he must have had a very good reason. Aragorn would almost have laughed aloud at that. Gasur was probably still on their tail, accompanied by every single of his soldiers he'd been able to get his hands on. Yes, that was a rather good reason.

That thought only served to add panic to the worry, fear, pain, cold, confusion and anxiety that already swirled inside of him, and so the young ranger mentally took a step backwards and forced himself to assess this as he would assess every other situation in which someone else needed his help and medical expertise. His training in the healing arts needed only a few seconds to resurface and push his swirling emotions and wildly scattered thoughts to the side, and he assessed the situation with new calmness.

They were in a shallow cave, that was the first thing he noticed. It was still light outside; by the looks of it, early evening or late afternoon, which meant that he couldn't have been unconscious for all that long. Well, "cave" might be overstating it a little, he amended a moment later – it was more of a protruding rock that formed a little hollow. The wind still reached them, icy cold and biting.

Aragorn had studied the maps in his father's library closely before they had let Imladris, and he knew that the shores of the Hoarwell were rocky and uneven. It was a safe bet that they were still in the vicinity of the river, even though he couldn't hear the stream right now. That might not mean anything, by the way; right now he could hear little more than the beating of his own heart and the blood that rushed through his veins.

It made sense, Aragorn told himself. Legolas must have been trying to get them to safety, to get as far away from the 'Fox' of his men as possible. That he had made it this far was nothing short of a miracle – that he had collapsed as soon as he had reached his goal was not.

The second thing he saw was that Legolas' wounds had reopened again – all of them, mind you, or at least all he could see. The cut on his throat was swollen and red, and bright red blood was trickling down the elf's neck and staining the fair skin. It was staining the remnants of the elf's shirt, too, even though it most certainly wasn't the only one. The long cut on his arm was bleeding again – hadn't he told the reckless elf to stop bleeding, he wondered – and so had apparently ever other scrape and cut he had sustained in the past days.

The thing that frightened him even more than the amount of blood he could see was the pallor of the fair-haired elf's skin, however, and the way his eyes were tightly closed. Aragorn's forced composure threatened to disintegrate, but the man pushed the rising panic aside with cold-blooded determination. The last thing Legolas needed right now was for him to lose his head, in any sense of the way.

He had just reached out to feel the elf's pulse when his friend's eyes opened without the slightest warning, and his right hand shot out to grab his wrist. He didn't quite manage to, however, and so the elf only raised his right arm half-ways before it fell back onto the cold earth.

For a few seconds the two of them only stared at each other, both too surprised to say something, but then Legolas frowned heavily and blinked at the man.  
"A-Aragorn?"

A smile spread over the ranger's face, causing several small wounds and cuts to start hurting fiercely, but Aragorn ignored that small discomfort.  
"Yes, of course. Whom did you expect?"

Even though he was in quite a bad state and the man's voice was hoarse and soft, Legolas had apparently understood his words. Instead of looking relieved, however, he just looked confused.  
"We … you are not … you were unconscious."

Aragorn blinked and said the first thing that came to his mind.  
"So were you."

"Not … unconscious," the elf protested weakly. "Just … resting my eyes."

"I see," the man smiled again, his eyes already assessing the damage done to his friend's body. "Rest them some more, then. I need to have a look at you."

"No … no time," Legolas shook his head. "They could still be after us. We must go on."

"We can't, my friend," Aragorn answered simply. "You can't. I can't. Lie still and stop protesting. It gives me a headache."

"But…"

"The next ford is at Aberon, _mellon nín_," the man tried to appeal at the other's reasonability. "Crossing the river with horses is out of the question, and so is using a ferry, at least under these conditions. Half an hour will hardly matter."

Under different circumstances, Legolas would surely have answered, reluctant to yield this easily, but right now he simply didn't have the energy for it. He was shivering and hot at the same time, and his whole body felt as if it had been dragged behind a chariot for a few miles. Over rocky terrain, that was.

Aragorn, too, wondered about the elf's lack of protest, but he was far too busy to give it any real thought. He was trying to bind as many of the other's wounds as he could, which proved to be quite a task. There was not much he could use as bandages except the shreds of Legolas' shirt and what was left of his own cloak, and he had run out of dressings long before he had bound all of the elf's wounds.

After long minutes, Aragorn sat back slightly, trying his best to ignore his pounding headache or the way his right wrist and back hurt. Legolas hadn't reacted at all while he had been looking after his wounds, had neither cried out or given any other indication that he was in pain. He knew that the elven prince hated betraying what he perceived as weakness, but Aragorn had been a healer long enough to know how much his actions would have hurt the elf. That he was this listless just couldn't be a good sign.

"Legolas?" he asked softly. "Can you hear me?" The elf gave no indication that he had heard him, and Aragorn felt how his worry grew even more. "Legolas, don't do this to me. Please, answer me." There was still no answer, and so he added, very close to despairing now, "You were an idiot to carry me, elf. You reopened all your wounds, and I mean _all _of them. You are a fool, the biggest one I've ever seen." 

Just when he thought that Legolas had lost consciousness once more a silver-blue, rather outraged eye was opened and used to glare at him in a way that would have made King Thranduil immensely proud.  
"Says the … fool who pushed me … into a-an icy river." 

Aragorn grinned, too relieved to pretend to be annoyed.  
"You do have a point."

Legolas returned the grin, or rather the faint imitation of one, before his eyes slowly started to close again. The worry in Aragorn's heart skipped another level of intensity and turned straight into panic. The elf was clearly feverish, had lost a lot of blood and had experienced too many shocks even for an elven system. If he went to sleep now, there was the very real chance that he would never wake again.

"No," the man said curtly and shook his injured friend roughly. "No, Legolas. You can't sleep now. We need to get to Aberon. I need your help. Don't you dare go to sleep."

The silver-blue eyes opened wide as the elf forced his eyelids open once more, but Aragorn knew only too well that that wouldn't last for long, not judging by the way the other was shivering like a leaf in the wind.  
"S-s-sorry … Estel … I'm just so … so tired…"

"I know," Aragorn nodded softly, swallowing against a sudden tightness in his throat. "I know, _mellon nín_. Stay awake for me, please. I can't reach Aberon if you don't help me."

Clearly against his will, Legolas' eyes were beginning to close once again as cold and pain became too much for him. Aragorn felt the panic inside of him turn into yet another, more desperate emotion, and the sudden rush of adrenaline gave him enough strength to ignore his own injuries and rise to his feet. For a few moments, he was swaying dangerously as he tried to balance Legolas' dead weight and figure out a way to best push aside his own weakness, but in the end he tightened his hold on his friend, managing to keep both of them upright.

The sudden movement had apparently succeeded in jolting the elf out of his near-unconscious state for a moment, and Aragorn could feel Legolas' head move slightly against his shoulder, even though his eyes remained closed.  
"Don't … just leave me and … find help…"

If he'd had the strength to do so, Aragorn would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of his friend's words.   
"No. I will not let you go like that, Legolas. Never." 

He had already dragged both of them forward, out of the cave and into the softly falling rain, when soft words reached his ears, so soft that he would almost have missed them.  
"You … are … stubborn idiot…"

Before the man could say anything, he felt his friend's body go limp as he finally lost consciousness again. He wouldn't have known what to say anyway, he thought darkly to himself while he slowly and painfully limped into what he thought was a northern direction. He knew that their chances of ever reaching Aberon were slim, if not nonexistent, but Legolas was right, after all.

He was stubborn, and he would be damned if he made everything even easier for Gasur. If that man wanted them dead, he would have to try a little harder.

He probably would, too, but that was entirely beside the point.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend_

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Poor Elfsies. And ranger, of course. And everyone around them, I guess, because they're bound to get into a lot of trouble, too. •g• Anyway, next chapter we'll see a little more of our intrepid (half-dead) heroes, find out what Acalith and Gasur think about all that's going on, and Elrohir gets a heart attack. Or something like that. Can Elves get heart attacks? Hmm, I'll have to think about that... As always: Reviews? Yes please! •g•

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**Additional A/N:**

Deana - Ah, yes, I guess he did. He's a stupid idiot sometimes, isn't he? •g• But we love him nonetheless... •huggles ranger• Poor him, I know. •g•  
**Ainu Laire** - •g• Staff Elf, huh? Good name, really... •g• And I really hope I'll be able to finish this soon. I should, though, even if the characters never shut up. They're annoying idiots, all of them. •grr• It's good to see that you don't like Gasur, I have to admit that he IS kind of creepy. Okay, make that VERY creepy. •g• I understand your choice, btw. Going to that school would be a bit much, even for Aragorn. There are limits, after all. •g• I like your ingenious plan, though. Really.  
**HarryEstel** - Well, yes. It can ALWAYS get worse. Trust me on this. •evil grin• Thank you very very much for all your reviews - it's great to hear that you still like this weird little story!  
**Invisigoth3 - **LOL, yes. Now they're wet, too. Poor them. •huggles them• And I have found out that running won't do you much good. Elves can be very fast, and so can rangers, apparently. I have bought a false nose and a wig. I will outsmart them! •evil laugh•  
**KLMeri** - Hmm, let me thing. The last "cliff plot" was in THOM, I think. Nah, that's not true, now that I think about it. I think it was in Straight Paths. It's been some time, anyway. •g• I can't tell you anything about Erestor, sorry. That would be unfair, and it would make Gasur angry. We can't have that, can we?  
**Slayer3** - Define "in one piece", please. •evil grin• It's all a matter of definition. •g• I have to admit that that the twins are cool. If they're hot, I don't know. Tolkien didn't really say and PJ ... •gr• Let's not talk about that, shall we? Thinking about that always makes me very mad. •g•  
**Dreamzone** - It appears that you have underestimated them, then. Or overestimated them. Or whatever. What I'm meaning to say is this: They're far stupider than assumed by most people. They're just hiding it very well. •g• Elrond and Glorfindel will have to wait a bit longer, sorry. Right now we have Day 28 (according to my special, weird timetable that enables me to keep track of everything), and they can't possibly arrive before Day 29-evening/Day 30. Sorry about that. •g•  
**Zerah** - You're only too right. I hate Mary-Sues myself, with a passion actually. They're an abomination, if you ask me... •grr• Ah, well, sorry about that. I can get a little strange sometimes. It's great to hear that you're enjoying the story so far. Thanks a lot for taking the time to review!  
**Claudette** - When compared with some of their other escapes, this one wasn't half-bad, wasn't it? •g• I really think they're learning. Slowly, but still learning. Right now, Elrohir and Isál are on the other side of the river. Bad luck. Elrond & Co. won't get here for a while either - you're right, that would be far too simple. •g•  
**SeventhSpanishAngel12** - LOL, I love it! "There's nothing wrong with being sadistic and evil - as long as no one knows your name". Wise words, my friend... •g• I don't think Aragorn can really appreciate the irony of his situation at the moment, though. He's a little distracted at the moment. •evil, sadistic grin•  
**Dae** - Don't you worry - there's blood in this chapter. And quite a bit of sadness and despair, too, so you should be just fine. •g• So you don't pity Acalith? I cannot imagine why - she's such a nice, perfectly normal person... •g• Glorfindel & Co. won't arrive 'today' though, sorry. Tomorrow evening at the earliest.  
**Ithil-valon** - Ah, I have suceeded then! You weren't supposed to like Salir - he's evil, after all. He would never help them to "help" them, if you understand what I mean... Sorry about disappointing you, though. Elrohir and his men won't be fishing them out of the river - that would be cheating, wouldn't it? •g•  
**Ali64** - LOL, he might have a death wish, actually. Only a tiny little one, of course. •g• Legolas will make him regret it, though, you can count on that. Glorfindel might indeed be the one to find Erestor - I'm not sure about it yet, but he might. And I guess, if he does, that yes, he'll be angry. Very much so. •g•  
**Pyro** - I guess that, right now, they would actually be ecstatic about a change to be yelled at by Glorfindel and/or Elrond. I would be if I were in their shoes, that is. •g• Elrohir won't be fishing them out of the river, though, sorry. Would be far too easy, not to mention nice. My alter ego hates to be nice. •g•  
**QueenofFlarmphgal** - •blushes• Thank you! It's great to hear that you're enjoying this so much. I have a thing for Aragorn angst myself - I know, I know, you would never have guessed. •g• Gasur is indeed a rather evil person - but you need a villain, right? Anyway, thanks a lot for your kind words!  
**Elf-meat** - I am doing my best, I really am. I have the problem that ff-net and my computer hate me. •shrugs• Ah well. Thank you very much for your review!  
**SmilingDragonGirl** - Mhahaha, ein neuer Reviewer! Haben wir es doch mal wieder geschafft, jemanden in unsere verrueckten Geschichten quasi zu verwickeln... •g• Uhm, na ja, wie auch immer. Willkommen bei den total Irren. •g• Ist doch nett, dass du Rashwe magst. Sagt, wie du schon sagtest, nicht viel ueber deine geistige Gesundheit aus, aber trotzdem. •g• Die Gusseisen-Bratpfannen-Methode koennte genau das richtige fuer Gasur sein. Muss ich noch mal drueber nachdenken... LOL, und nein, wir koennen ihn nicht klonen. Sorry. •g• Ich danke dir •vielmals• fuer diese lange, lustige Review. •knuddel• Danke!  
**Tineryn** - Hmm, yes, I guess Elrohir •could• fish them out of the river. But, really, how much fun would that be? Answer: Not much. Plus, it would be way too easy. •evil grin• And you know, I can just see Elrond perfoming CPR while Glorindel is going insane in the background... Argh! •fends off plot bunny• Shoo! Not another one of those! You put them up to it, admit it!  
**Sanaryelle** - Well, sorry about the cliffy - I couldn't help myself. I just HAD to. •g• But you're right - even I am beginning to pity Acalith. Her subordinates are morons, all of them. •g• Let me see, Elrond, Glorfindel and Erestor will have to wait for a bit longer, but there's some Isál and Elrohir in here. That's something!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - Actually, I wasn't even thinking about that scene in Movie-TTT when I wrote that cliffy. But now that you mention it, there are certain similarities, aren't there? •g• Elrond & Co. won't make an appearance in the immediate future, sorry. But I'll see what I can do. I promise. •fake, cheesy smile•  
**Arrina** - Nope, they never get a break. Would be boring otherwise, wouldn't it? For us, that is. •evil grin• Well, let's see, 'today' is Day 28 (according to my all-powerful timetable). Elrond & Co. won't get there till Day 29-evening/Day 30. Sorry, no can do. Continuity and all that. •g•  
**Soulinlondon** - LOL, yes, you'll get the chance to enjoy the torture, I mean adventures, of our intrepid duo. Never fear. •g• You really are a sadist, aren't you? We have Wireless LAN in our libraries, but I still need a Wireless LAN stick for my laptop, so it doesn't do me any good. •gr• My native language is, as you may have noticed, German. It's a horrible language, I know. I have never actually written anything in German, which is most likely because I have read the books in English. I've never seen the movies in German either - I heard how they had translated the names and such and didn't stop laughing for a week. Really. •g•  
**Just Jordy** - It took them long enough, too, didn't it? At least they've managed to escape - that's something, I guess. Especially when you consider their luck. •g• Sorry about the cliffies, btw. I just can't help myself. •grins helplessly•  
**Deep Sorrow** - Whoah, new name! It's nice - a bit dark, but nice! •g• I think you're right, actually. Acalith should do something like that - but that would be intelligent, wouldn't it? And, no matter what she likes to believe, she can't be THAT intelligent. She kidnapped Erestor, after all. •shrugs• How stupid is that?  
**CrazyAZN Kid** - I'm sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. My compuiter hates me, it really does.  
**Maerz** - Na, dann ist's ja gut. Wenn man kaffeesuechtig ist, ist's schon weit gekommen... •g• Und ich kann nur sagen: EINEN harten Schlag auf den Kopf? Ich persoenlich wuerde eher sagen, drei oder vier. Oder 'n Dutzend. •g• Elvynd geht's uebrigens relativ gut. Glaube ich. Danke fuer die Erinnerung; ich wollte mal gucken, ob ich noch 'ne Szene mit ihm und irgendwem einbauen kann. Mal schauen... •g•  
**Inuyashaloverfan** - •g• Well, here it is. I know that it took a few hundred years, but still. Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Viggomaniac** - I have to admit that I've never seen that particular movie, sorry. But I have to admit that it really sounded a lot like Legolas and Aragorn. I can just imagine them saying something like that... •g• And being kicked out of cinemas happens to me a lot, too. I was nearly kicked out during Gladiator, Alexander of course, FotR (Sorry, but the death of Boromir was just TOO funny), The Patriot... There are more, I think. Not my fault, though - why do they make such movies?  
**Golden Elf** - I don't think anyone should try and count. They would still be counting in a few years or so... •g• Legolas will get some loving care in the end, I guess. So will Aragorn - if the two of them survive long enough, that is. But that's completely up to them. •g•  
**Madam Librarian** - LOL, I mentioned Erestor and that was enough. Well, perfect then. I would hate to disappoint a faithfuil reviewer such as yourself... •g• Erestor's lucky, though, because Gasur's main grudge really is against Legolas. Good for him - bad for the wood-elf, I guess. •g• Glorfindel won't make an appearance this chapter or the next though, sorry. I'll see what I can do about the one after that though. I promise.  
**Marbienl** - Nah, Salir isn't nice. Would be too easy if he were, wouldn't it? •evil grin• Legolas didn't have much choice, this time. He was pushed after all. This mess is entirely Estel's fault. I'm sure Legolas will emphasise this point in the future. •g• •grabs chocolate• Thanks! You can never have enough chocolate! •g•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - Hmm, let me see. I had to put a cliffy in there because ... well ... my alter ego made me do it? Either that or because I just couldn't help myself. Sorry. It was just too tempting. •g• Your weekend sounds like fun though. Except for the sunburn, of course. •g•  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - I have to agree: Acalith and Girion would've made a great couple. A pity he's dead. •sad sigh• LOL, I love the idea of the two of them having "insane" alter egos. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest, and it would explain a lot. A whole lot. •g• Thank you for that huge review! •huggles•  
**Iverson** - Ha! I remember you! Welcome back! •huggles• It's great to 'see' you again! I understand you absence, I really do, btw. RL can be a real b•••• sometimes, can't it? •glares at it for good measure• And Aragorn might indeed be learning something. It took him long enough, too, didn't it? LOL, yes, you could be right, perhaps Gasur only wants to talk to them. That seems very likely. •g• Thank you very much for your long review!

**Well, I tried to keep each reply as short as possible. I really don't want to temp fate - or FF-net. It's plain evil, that's what it is. •gives website dark look•**


	27. A Matter of Trust

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**  
A/N:**

Both because of FF-net's new insane rules and because I don't have any time at the moment I will make this brief. I'm leaving tomorrow - I'm visiting a friend who's studying in Greece - and have still about a thousand things to do. I'll be back on the 24th of June (my birthday, yay! •g•), don't worry, but I don't think you should be looking for an update before the 29th or something like that. I'm leaving my laptop behind and won't be writing at all. I'll be too busy spending all my time visiting archaeological sites (yay again!) and lying on the beach. Sorry. •g•

Anyway, here's the next chapter. Because Madam Librarian sent me such a nice email, I even put in an Erestor-scene which I hadn't intended to write at all. Lucky you - not so lucky Erestor. •evil grin• Other than that, everybody realises that it all comes down to one thing - trust. Oh, and faith and luck. But they already knew that. •g•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 27

Torel was an idiot. More than that, he was a fool, and Vonar would be damned if he knew how he'd missed something like that in someone he'd known as long as his cousin.

Right now said cousin was stepping from foot to foot, looking a lot like a truant schoolboy. Vonar, who had known him for nearly 19 long years, knew that Torel had very seldom missed one of his classes, and therefore didn't really know whether he should be astonished or plain worried.

Torel looked back over his shoulder, his brown curls that were so much like his own flying around his head with the quick, jerky motion, and Vonar felt a part of himself nod calmly. Worry would be far more appropriate, then.

"There is nothing behind us except our horses, Torel," he said, annoyed, even though he knew that the older boy wasn't listening. "In fact, there is _no one _ here. What are you afraid of? What are we _doing _here, for the Gods' sake?"

Torel ignored him, of course, just like he'd know he would, and Vonar returned to his inner musings with a small, long-suffering sigh. He would give the stubborn idiot who called himself his cousin two more minutes to explain himself, and then he would leave. He had better things to do than stand here, in the dark, _outside the city walls_, waiting for he-didn't-really-know-what and generally tempt fate. Or, more precisely, his father's and uncle's patience, which was at least as bad.

The young man shivered openly, and not only because of the cold that seeped through his damp cloak and into his bones. It was spring already, and it wasn't raining – at least not at the moment – but that didn't mean that it couldn't be freezing cold. Still, if faced with a choice between having to endure the cold and having to face his uncle and father, he would choose this every time. His father Tibron was a reasonable man, even what you would call a gentle man, but Toran, his uncle…

Vonar trailed off. He loved his uncle, just like he loved all members of his family, but that didn't mean that he was blind to his faults. Toran was ambitious and secretive, and suspicious of outsiders and everyone else who could challenge his plans. He only wanted what was best for their town, of that Vonar was certain, and that was also what set him apart from people like Hurag and his supporters. That didn't change anything, though, not really anyway, and Vonar was beginning to understand just that.

More than that, he believed that Torel, too, was beginning to understand that. His cousin loved his father, just like his siblings did, but he was also no fool. He had seen the dark look in Torel's eyes earlier today, when he had asked if he would accompany him, and he was beginning to think that he wasn't only _beginning _to understand it – he _had _ understood it.

He wasn't quite sure what that entailed, even though he had the sneaking suspicion that he was about to find out. He was also rather sure that he didn't really want that to happen.

Deciding that his cousin's two minutes were more than up, Vonar took a deep breath and shook his head as he stepped forward. Torel might be older than he and more than willing to remind him of that fact, too, but that didn't mean that he had to be right about everything.  
"All right. I'll see you later, then."

The older boy turned around, startled, and looked at him questioningly.  
"What are you talking about?"

Vonar gave him a look that very clearly stated that that should be obvious.  
"I've had enough of this, Torel. We'll be in trouble if anyone finds out what we've been up to, especially now with the elves being here and all that. If we get ourselves killed by some wild beast or other because we couldn't follow the rules and had to wander around in the dark, we'll be in _real _trouble."

Torel didn't bother pointing out that there were at least two serious flaws in his cousin's reasoning and simply shook his head sharply.   
"You can't go, Vonar."

"Oh yes, I can," his younger cousin protested in a similar tone of voice. "Look about yourself, Torel! We are at least a mile away from the city, in the middle of nowhere, and don't even have a torch! To make everything worse, we are on the wrong side of the river! You know as well as I do that the eastern banks are dangerous; our guards don't patrol this far away from the city. Even though we all know how useless the idiots from Donrag are, they know how to keep orcs away from their side."

"Yes," Torel nodded thoughtfully. "That is the problem, isn't it? The soldiers of Donrag know very well how to keep orcs out of their territory."

Vonar cocked his head and squinted at the other young man, trying to see his face more clearly in the dim moonlight.  
"Have you broken into Uncle Toran's wine cellar again?" 

Torel turned back to him, clearly surprised.  
"No, of course not! And no, I'm not drunk either!"

"Are you mad, then? If you don't start making sense right now I will leave! I mean it!"

Torel looked at the younger boy and realised that he really meant what he'd just said. He had missed the exact point of time, but Vonar was no longer a boy. He may be still infuriatingly naïve from time to time, but he knew what he wanted. And, right now, he wanted an explanation. He sighed inwardly. He hadn't wanted to get his little cousin involved in all this, but he needed help. He didn't know whom he could trust right now; he only knew whom he couldn't trust. He was still struggling to come to terms with this particular situation.

"I talked with Lord Elrohir," he began quietly, turning back around to watch the winding path in front of them. "I … I told him some things."

"With whom?" Vonar asked, frowning in confusion.

"Lord Elrohir," Torel repeated tonelessly. "The elf lord's son. The leader of their party."

If the situation hadn't been so serious, it would have been amusing to watch Vonar's reaction. The young man's eyes grew so wide that they were in the distinct danger of coming loose, dropping into his lap and rolling away, and his jaw became slack and almost fell open.   
"You did _what_!"

"I talked to Lord Elrohir," Torel stated for the third time in less than a minute. "I told him that we only found five of his friends."

"Great Ones," Vonar groaned shakily, looking as if he could have used a chair to sit down. "We're all dead." Torel didn't say anything, either because he didn't want to distress his cousin further or because he couldn't find it in himself to disagree, and after a few seconds Vonar raised his head again, staring at the other boy with wide eyes. "Whatever has possessed you to do something like that, Torel? Do you have any idea what they're going to do to all of us? You heard what your father said; they will blame us for their deaths and then…"

"Stop babbling for a second and _think_, Vonar!" Torel interrupted his cousin sharply, whirling around and grasping him by the elbows. He shook him slightly, forcing him to look at him. "More importantly, listen to yourself! You sound like them!"

"Like who, cousin?" Vonar demanded to know, just as furiously. "Like reasonable people?"

"Like my father, and Hurag, and all the others!" Torel ground out between gritted teeth. "They are only thinking about their profits, nothing more! Let me tell you what would have happened if I hadn't told the elves about their missing companions: They would have found out on their own, and then they would not only have suspected us, they would have believed that they had proof! And after what happened to their other companions, can you blame them?"

"That was a fire, Torel," Vonar shook his head quickly – a little too quickly. "An accident."

"Come now, Vonar, open your eyes!" the older boy exclaimed and shook his relative again for good measure. "You know better than that! It was Hurag's house they were staying in, and Hurag's men who discovered the fire, and Hurag's men who put it out! Do I really have to spell it out for you?" 

"Yes," the other replied darkly. "Yes, Torel. Spell it out for me."

Torel growled under his breath, clearly annoyed by his cousin's unwillingness to take him seriously. For a moment, he looked very much like his father Toran, even despite the different hair colour and the fact that the older man was easily a head taller than he. 

"All right," he ground out and released his cousin's arms. "Hurag is responsible for the elves' deaths. He is also responsible for the fire, and – this is my favourite part, actually – for the fire that destroyed the two warehouses some time back. You will remember that they didn't belong to him, but rather to one of his rivals."

Vonar looked at him as if he couldn't quite decide whether he should start laughing or not.  
"Torel … Cousin, you know very well that I don't like him either, but this is just…"

"Insane? Completely mad? Unreasonable? Unrealistic?" Torel asked softly, the anger slowly beginning to drain out of him as he shook his head. "Yes, I thought so, too."

"Then what changed your mind?"

"I … I accidentally overheard a conversation between my father and Hurag, about a week ago," the older boy explained hesitantly, once again staring at the path in front of him as if something might appear there that would make this confession easier for him. "My father accused Hurag of having been involved in the elves' deaths and the trouble with the warehouses and…"

"And?" Vonar prompted, gesticulating with both hands. If he was in any way shocked about the fact that his cousin had eavesdropped on his father and the most influential councilman of their town, he did not show it. "And what?"

"He all but admitted it," Torel answered tonelessly. "He didn't say it out loud, of course, but neither did he deny it. He killed those elves, Vonar, and he killed the guards that died when the warehouses burnt down. You said it yourself, the Men of Donrag know well enough how to keep orcs away from their lands. We haven't seen a single orc in almost three years. Why should they decide to stray this far from their holes now? And why didn't we see any dead orcs if they really killed the elves? No, Vonar. Hurag might not have killed them with his own hands, but that doesn't mean that he isn't responsible for their deaths."

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything, but then Vonar interrupted the silence that had fallen between them and nodded his head.   
"All right. Provided you're right and didn't misunderstand something, why didn't your father do something? I know that he isn't too fond of elves in general, but he is also a fair man. He wouldn't just consent to their murder like this! And consenting to the murder of our own guards … no, Torel, I can't believe that!"

"Then you should learn to believe it, because it is the truth," Torel answered calmly, suddenly sounding rather older and very tired. "The Gods know I didn't want to believe it myself, but it is the truth. Don't you understand, Vonar? My father is afraid of Hurag, afraid of what he might do if he disagrees with him or opposes him. He is afraid that he might take a stand against him only to find himself in a burning building. Or," he added quietly, "my mother or my siblings." 

"Hurag wouldn't do that," Vonar shook his head, knowing how feeble that sounded.

"Don't be a fool," the brown-haired youth told him brusquely. "Of course he would."

Vonar thought about his cousin's words and realised that he was right. Hurag was able and capable of doing something like that. He was able and capable of doing things far, far worse in his opinion.

"Still," he tried once again, "that doesn't answer my initial question. What are we doing here? You may be right, and Hurag may be responsible for all these things. If you are, I even understand why you told the elf lord's son, even thought I have to admit that I do not really approve of it. But that doesn't change the fact that we are out here, in the middle of nowhere, waiting for something you have yet to tell me about!" 

"Who says we are waiting for something?"

"Oh, please, Torel," Vonar shook his head dismissively. "You may be older and _so much _wiser than me, but I am not stupid. You have been watching this path like a dragon would watch its hoard. What are you expecting? Or should I rather say whom?"

For a moment, Torel didn't say anything, the moonlight casting a pale, ghostly white light over his features. He hesitated for long seconds, but then took a deep breath and turned to look his younger cousin in the eye.

"If I tell you, Vonar, you have to swear to me that you will talk about it with no one. And I mean no one, cousin, or both our lives will be forfeit."

Vonar nodded after only a second, looking pleased more than afraid or anxious. No matter how much he had grown, he was still hardly more than a boy, Torel decided with an affectionate inner smile, a boy that was pleased he was judged worthy of being told a secret. Doubts washed once again over him, but the curly-haired youth pushed them aside. It was too late to back out of this now, and Vonar was already involved. Besides, if there was one thing to be said about him, it was that he was curious to a fault. He wouldn't rest until he told him what was going on here.

"You know Hurag hasn't been seen for a while, don't you?" he began quietly.

"Yes," Vonar nodded, a little bit confused. "Of course not. If you are right and he really is responsible for the blond elf's and the ranger's deaths, it's understandable, isn't it? The rest of their party would like nothing better than tear him limb from limb."

"That is the problem," Torel nodded with a small, mirthless smile that looked ghostly in the silvery moonlight. "They are not dead." 

Vonar closed his eyes, raised a hand and rubbed his brow, slowly shaking his head from side to side. After a few seconds he raised his head again, looking a lot like a man who had been privy to so many revelations in the past half-hour that he was unable to feel real surprise anymore.   
"They are not?" he asked tiredly.

"No, they are not," Torel repeated. "The elves were right. They weren't in the house when it burnt down. Hurag arranged for them to be taken captive and brought to Donrag."

"Wait just a moment," Vonar demanded, looking at his cousin with wide eyes. "Are you trying to tell me that Hurag is a traitor? That he is working with _Donrag_, against us?"

"Yes, that is exactly what I am trying to tell you," the older youth nodded calmly. "Think about it, Vonar. Who is the last person you would suspect of something like this? Who has ever spoken against them in public? Who has been growing mysteriously rich over the past few years, ever since that witch Acalith became their lady?"

Now the younger man rubbed his face with both his hands, as if he could wipe the implications away with quick swipes of his palms.   
"No. No, I do not believe this."

Torel closed the distance between them with two quick steps and seized his cousin's hands, pulling them away from his face and forcing him to look at him.  
"Look me in the eye, cousin. I do not lie to you. Hurag is a traitor, and has been for years."

"But … but why would he…?"

"It always comes down to one thing, doesn't it?" Torel asked tiredly. "Money, what else? Money is power, Vonar, and both you and I know it. Hurag certainly knows it. They are paying him to give them information and make sure everyone looks the other way when it suits their purpose, just like that night they took the two of them."

"I don't understand," Vonar protested quietly. "If you know all this, then why didn't you tell your father? He would do something!"

"Would he?" Torel laughed; a hollow, disillusioned sound. "I am not so sure anymore. I don't know how strong a hold Hurag has over my father. I haven't known for longer than a few hours myself; so he might only be suspecting something. But, more importantly, I cannot risk finding out. There's too much at stake here."

"Like what?" Vonar exclaimed, realised that they were in hostile territory and checked his voice. He looked about them to make sure that they hadn't attracted the attention of something or someone unfriendly, and finally turned back to his cousin. "I don't understand, Torel! Please, tell me what is going on here! Now, before my head explodes!"

Torel took a deep, calming breath.  
"As I said, Hurag hasn't been seen for a while. I don't know where he is myself, but what I do know is that all his messages are delivered to our house. My father makes sure that they reach him." 

"You didn't," Vonar shook his head, his eyes wide and pleading in his face. "Please tell me that you didn't."

"I did," Torel admitted and flashed his cousin a quick grin, for a moment looking just like a boy who had successfully placed a couple of frogs in his teacher's boots. "It was earlier this afternoon when my father was still at the council meeting and all the servants were busy with the inventory. A messenger I have never seen before came to our house and demanded that I made sure that his message reached Hurag. He wasn't from Aberon, Vonar, and I would bet every single coin I possess that he is right now across this river, safe in Donrag with those who pay the dear Master Hurag." 

"So you took his message," Vonar summed up, deadpan. "Have you taken complete leave of your senses? They will know that it was you!" 

"Eventually, yes," the older boy nodded calmly. "But by then it will be too late. They won't be sending another messenger to check whether the message reached Hurag, Vonar. They have other things to worry about, and won't want to risk sending a second messenger, at least not for quite a while."

"Very well," Vonar sighed after a second, apparently resigned to the fact that his favourite cousin was completely insane. "We can talk about this later. What did the message say?"

"That the elf and the ranger aren't dead," Torel answered promptly. "That they were taken to Donrag and interrogated, but managed to escape. They were pursued, and fell or jumped into the Hoarwell some miles north of Donrag. They are believed to be dead, but Hurag is ordered to keep his eyes open and kill them should they somehow have managed to make it to this side of the river and back to Aberon."

Vonar closed his eyes with a small sigh.  
"Please tell me that we are not waiting for a dead ranger and an equally dead elf, Torel."

"They aren't dead," Torel shook his head. "For all our sakes they _mustn't_ be dead, or we'll all be in serious trouble. You said it earlier, Vonar: The other elves will blame us for their deaths, and the Gods alone know what might happen after that."

"So you thought it wise to come here, alone?" the younger boy asked incredulously. "You don't even know if they still live, Torel! No one survives a fall into the Hoarwell at this time of year, you know that!" 

"Yes, you may be right," Torel admitted. "But I do not think so. Let me tell you why: Because Lord Elrohir never even contemplated the idea that they might be dead, not once. He has faith in their abilities and their will to survive, and you can't help but believe him. I don't know if it's just him or elves in general, but I know that he was telling the truth. If the elf and the ranger managed to survive, they will be coming down this road, especially if they are injured and cannot make their way up the cliffs to higher ground. I wanted to make sure that we were the first to spot them. They will be dead should they reach the town gates on their own, without having been warned." 

"And then what, Torel?" Vonar asked tiredly, looking nervously over his shoulder. He was apparently beginning to understand what being caught by their own people would mean. "What can the two of us do for them? You should have told your father, not me."

"I cannot, do you not see this?" Torel exclaimed, for the first time truly losing his temper. "I cannot tell my father, because I cannot trust him! I cannot trust anyone in our city! I love my father, you know I do, and yet I cannot trust him not to betray the two of them as soon as he hears about this! I pray to all the Gods that I am wrong and that he would help them, that he would oppose Hurag and protect them until their companions returned to the city, but I cannot be sure! I cannot trust my own father to do what is right and honourable! Do you know what that feels like, cousin? Do you?"

Vonar thought about his own father Tibron, about his honesty and kindness that even a blind person could see. His father would never do something like this, never, not for all the gold and gems in the world.  
"No," he admitted softly. "No, I don't."

"Be glad for it, then," Torel retorted hoarsely. "It feels terrible." He paused for a moment, obviously working hard to get his emotions under control. "I don't know what we can do for them, Vonar. The only thing I know is that I cannot allow them to die, least of all by the hands of Hurag. They don't deserve such a fate, and our home would only suffer for it." 

"Why did you ask me to accompany you?" Vonar asked quietly. "I cannot do anything to aid you or them."

"Because I spoke too hastily before," Torel answered, the hint of a smile in his eyes. "I do trust someone in this city. I trust you. I have known you all your life, Vonar, and know that you will do what is right. I need someone I trust to watch my back, or I'll be dead by this night's end." 

"I would never let you down, Torel, you know that," Vonar nodded eagerly. "Even though you're a complete madman." Torel grinned at his cousin, his teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight, and so he didn't notice that the younger man's eyes were suddenly drawn to something at his back. "Or," Vonar added after a second, "maybe not."

It took Torel some moments to realise what the other was implying, but then he whirled around, his eyes frantically darting from one end of the path to the other. At first he thought Vonar had imagined something – it wouldn't have been too surprising either. Giving the ever-moving shadows that surrounded them, the dim, silvery moonlight that now and then poured through the moving branches overhead and their general mental disposition, he himself was more than willing to believe that an entire horde of orcs was lurking all around them.

It wasn't a horde of orcs his cousin had seen, however, and even though he was rather glad about it, Torel caught a part of himself wishing that it was. Orcs he would know how to deal with, but this … this was a disaster waiting to happen. Oh, whom was he trying to kid, he thought a moment later. This was a disaster that had happened, was happening right now and would cheerfully happen again in the future. 

Realising that he wasn't making much sense, Torel grasped his cousin's arm and pulled him forward, into the direction of the faint movement he had spotted somewhere to the left of the path. He should have remembered this, the brown-haired youth reminded himself darkly. If he had just escaped from Donrag and its insane captain, Gasur or whatever his name was, he wouldn't be using the road either. 

They worked their way through the undergrowth next to the muddy path, pushing brambles and low-hanging aside as best as they could in their hurry, and finally reached the narrow strip of open land next to the road. Torel looked quickly from left to right, trying to spot the shadowy figure he thought he had seen earlier, but there was nothing to be seen. His eyes widened slightly while he looked around, but there was nothing there except swaying branches that were moved by the night's breeze.

"Where did he go?" he finally asked, turning back to Vonar with a frown. "He couldn't have disappeared just like that!"

"I don't know," Vonar admitted with a clueless shrug. "I only saw movement behind you; I didn't even see a man."

"Well, there was one," Torel repeated firmly, quietly asking himself if his nervousness and anxiety hadn't just caused him to see phantoms. "I saw him, it, whatever it was. He was moving slowly, as if tired or wounded. He can't have got far. Where is he?"

"Right behind you," a soft, very lethal-sounding voice announced behind him, and before Torel could even blink something cold and sharp was pressed against his neck. "As is customary in such situations, at least in my experience."

Torel could only stare at his cousin's wide eyes that looked impossibly large in his white face, too shocked to think or move. When he recovered his wits somewhat, he tried to turn his head to be able to look at the person who was threatening him with an immediate and rather messy death, but before he had moved it more than half an inch the blade pressed down harder, breaking the skin and causing a small rivulet of blood to run down his neck. The brown-haired boy froze immediately.

"Now that I have your undivided attention," the man at his back went on as calmly as if nothing had happened at all, "let me make this brief. You have exactly six seconds to give me a reason not to cut your throat." 

Vonar blinked slowly, shaking off the paralysis that had seized his limbs, at least enough to be able to answer the man who was threatening to kill his cousin. He couldn't see much of him, not much more than dark hair and gleaming eyes, but he didn't need to be able to see him to know that he was very serious and would kill Torel without doubt or hesitation if he thought himself threatened in any way.

"We … we are from Aberon," he finally stammered.

The hand began to press down the knife a little harder, and over the gasp that escaped Torel's lips Vonar could hear the anger that filled the stranger's voice.  
"Bad answer," the man ground out between gritted teeth. "Three seconds."

"We mean you no harm!" Vonar tried again. "Please, let us explain! We … you … you are the ranger, aren't you? Strider?"

The dark-haired man's hand that was still pressing the knife against his cousin's throat began to shake slightly, either because his strength was beginning to desert him or in silent laughter. Vonar couldn't really decide which possibility he liked less.

"How strange," the ranger commented wryly. "How do you know me? Are you working with the 'Fox', or Gasur or whatever his name is today? Speak up, or I swear by Eru Ilúvatar and all the Valar that I will slit this one's throat. I will _not _allow you to take me back."

"No one wants to take you anywhere," Torel assured him as calmly as he could. It might have been not very calmly, though – the man behind him was pressing a knife against his carotid artery, after all! – but it was the best he could do at the moment. "Put down the knife and allow us to explain." 

"It doesn't stop you from talking, does it?" the ranger asked scathingly. "I am not going to put it down before you explain yourselves! Who are you? What are you doing here? Answer me! My patience is beginning to grow thin – and every time that happens, I experience these mysterious tremors that affect my whole body…"

Torel took a deep breath – or at least as deep a breath as he dared – as he decided that he really didn't want to test the ranger's patience. His voice might sound firm and determined, but he was rather sure that he had all but reached the ends of his strength. The Gods knew how long the other man would be able to stay on his feet, let alone keep his hand steady.

"I am Torel, son of Toran," he answered quickly. "This is my cousin, Vonar, son of Tibron. I read a letter addressed to Hurag, one of the leading councilmen. It spoke of your and your friend's captivity and the fact that he is to kill you should you reach Aberon. I would have gone to the rest of your party, but they weren't back yet. So we came to warn you and the elf." 

"Warn us," Aragorn repeated, his voice so incredulous that Torel almost winced openly. "I don't think so. Don't take it personal, Torel, son of Toran, but right now I don't trust anyone from your town. And least of all a member of your family."

"Please, Master Ranger," Vonar spoke up again. "Please, listen to us. Do you not think we would have brought more men with us if we intended to capture you or harm you in any way? We only wish to help you." 

"Why?" Aragorn asked suspiciously. "No one in your town ever wanted to help us. Why do you wish to help me, if even your own councilmen are trying to kill me and my friend?"

"Because it would be stupid to stand aside and do nothing," Vonar answered honestly. "Our town would suffer for it, and so would our families." 

The hand holding the dagger to Torel's throat was lowered minutely, but the young man knew better than to move. The ranger was apparently rather unwilling to trust anyone right now – and after what had happened to him and his friend, who could blame him? – and the last thing he wanted was give the man a reason to cut his throat.

"You are Master Tibron's son?" he finally asked, his voice wavering slightly, as if he was struggling to keep it strong and steady.

"Yes," Vonar nodded quickly. "He is my father."

The ranger turned his head a little to be able to look at him, and for the first time Vonar saw how pale and ghostly-looking he really was. There were several bruises visible even in the moonlight, and darker spots that looked like cuts or deep abrasions. For several long moments, he didn't speak or move, but then he finally lowered the knife and took a step backwards, releasing Torel.

"If you have only a tenth of your father's integrity, you will not betray us," the ranger stated slowly. "I will trust you, for your father's sake. He never lied to us."

"And neither do we," Vonar hurried to assure him. "We do not wish for any more people to die, that is all."

The ranger nodded carefully, guardedly, and Torel seized this chance to speak, one of his hands pressed against the shallow cut at his throat. He would have to think about a gift for Vonar. He had never known that his little cousin was this eloquent.  
"'Us'? Is the elf with you?"

Suspicion flickered through Aragorn's eyes while he tried to decide whether or not he should trust the two young men in front of him. A small voice inside his head told him that, if they really went looking, they would find Legolas quickly enough, and that he didn't have any choice at all. His strength was all but spent, his head felt as if it would explode, and the darkness he had been fighting off for the past few hours was beginning to become more persistent and inviting by the second. In a few minutes he wouldn't be able to stay conscious anymore, and then it wouldn't matter whether or not he told them the truth. 

"Yes," he finally nodded. "Come."

Torel and Vonar exchanged a quick look but quickly followed the ranger. Under different circumstances, it might have been hard to keep up with his long strides, but not tonight. Torel quickly saw that his assessment had been correct: The ranger was wounded, and quite badly so in his opinion. His gait was halting and slow, and he was rather sure that he wasn't swaying from side to side because of the wind that was now and then ripping at their clothes.

The question of how in the name of all that was holy the dark-haired man had managed to sneak up on them in this condition once again rose to the front of Torel's mind, but before he could gather enough courage to voice his thoughts, the ranger stopped in front of a large, thick bush next to the road. Following the ranger's example, the two younger men dropped to their knees, and only now that they were right in front of it they saw the lithe figure of the fair-haired elf that was cleverly concealed by the low-hanging branches. The elf was almost invisible, his body almost completely hidden by the branches and the shadows the bush cast, but even in the nearly complete darkness Torel could see that something was seriously wrong. His eyes were closed and he was too still, far too still even for a sleeping person, and despite the gloom the young man could see pieces of stained cloth that were wrapped around his arms and midsection.

Torel swallowed heavily and thanked their lucky stars. Considering the condition the elf and the ranger were in, it was a miracle that the dark-haired man had trusted them at all.

The ranger reached out with a slightly shaking hand to touch the elf's forehead, his attention completely fixed on his friend's still body. It wasn't only the ranger's hand or arm that was shaking, Torel noticed absent-mindedly. His entire body was beginning to tremble in a way that looked highly uncomfortable and not healthy at all.

"He … he needs help," the dark-haired man said slowly, as if he needed most of his remaining strength to force the words into some kind of order. "I did what I could, but…"

"You fell into the Hoarwell?" Vonar asked incredulously. "Both of you?"

"Jumped, actually," Aragorn nodded calmly, briefly looking up at the younger man. When Torel and Vonar just stared at him with wide eyes, he added coolly, "It was far better than the alternative."

Torel shook his head and reached up to undo the clasp that held his cloak at his throat.  
"Then you are lucky to be alive," he told the ranger seriously while he draped the warm cloth over the elf's motionless body. Next to him, Vonar was also nestling at his cloth pin. "We need to get you back to Aberon; you need warmth and a lot more help than we can give you."

"No," the ranger shook his head firmly, his left hand shooting out to grasp the other's wrist. Torel noticed for the first time that his other wrist was swollen and bent at an angle no normal wrist had ever meant to be bent. "I will not endanger my friend's life by bringing him there."

"You endanger his life by keeping him here," Torel retorted reasonably. "Please, Master Ranger. I know a way to bring you into the city without being seen. And then…"

"Then we will take you to my father," Vonar added, just in the right moment. If he had spoken only a second later Torel would have had to admit that he had no idea what should happen then. "You said it yourself, Strider: My father would never betray you. For him, you are his guests and those of our town, and he will treat you as such, no matter what Hurag or Uncle Toran think. Our servants are loyal and discreet and will say nothing. There are always lots of people coming and going at the tavern, so with a bit of luck and the Gods' grace we will not be noticed."

For a moment, it seemed as if the ranger wanted to protest, but then he relented with a sigh.  
"All right," he mumbled tiredly, apparently struggling to keep his eyes open now that that decision had been reached. "I will trust your father once more. And you, too. After all … I … I do not have a lot … lot of choices, do I?"

"No," Torel shook his head calmly. To Aragorn's eyes, it looked as if the younger man's lips were moving in slow motion, and the words sounded hollow and far away. "No, not really."

The last word was so contorted that Aragorn could hardly understand it, and he could only stare at the face in front of him. It was slowly darkening as he finally lost consciousness – something he had been expecting for the past hour or so. He didn't really know how he had managed to drag Legolas this far; all he knew that, now that he had at least the vague hope that they were safe, he couldn't go on. Darkness washed over him for the second time in less than twelve hours, and just like before he didn't have the strength to resist it.

In the gathering darkness, Aragorn felt himself nod at the other's words even as his mind finally released the death grip it had had on his consciousness until now.

Yes, that was just what he'd figured himself.   
**  
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**  
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It had been a day now, and no one had come to see him. Under any other circumstances, he would have welcomed this development, but right now he found himself wishing that someone would come. The larger part of him whispered softly that that was the sign of fast approaching insanity.

The smaller part of Erestor, however, the one that had ceased caring about anything at all, giggled openly at that. "Approaching" insanity – no, not really. It was already upon him, and if he was mistaken and it wasn't, it was only a few steps away. 

Tearing his increasingly scattered thoughts away from that particular topic, Erestor desperately tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. He was beginning to feel how the nervousness and anxiety he had tried to keep at bay invaded his thoughts, tearing his concentration asunder – or rather what was left of his concentration. It really couldn't be much.

He simply didn't know if the lack of … "visitors" was a good thing or a bad thing. It had been nearly a day now since Aragorn's and Legolas' escape had been discovered – he really couldn't be sure, though – and after the initial chaos no one had come to interrogate him, or question him, or simply gloat. He was glad about that, surely, partly because he really didn't know how he would have reacted to something like that, but a large part of him was also desperately wishing someone would tell him what was going on.

It wasn't that he didn't trust in the two young ones' ability to escape. No, Erestor corrected himself a second later. It _was _ because he didn't trust in their ability to escape. It didn't have anything to do with them, of course, but he had seen the number of guards that was guarding Acalith's house. He seriously doubted that anything bigger than a mouse would be able to escape the dark-haired lady's manor, unless it was large, strong, very healthy and armed to the teeth.

Aragorn and Legolas had been none of these things, the dark-haired elf mused darkly. They had, in fact, been only a few steps away from collapsing where they had been standing, and considering their luck, they would have found a way to get themselves into even more trouble. It was a curse, really, or a gift, he wasn't quite sure about it, even though he tended to think about it as a curse. He had mused about this quite often in the past and had even talked with Glorfindel about what he liked to call "The Curse of Eärendil" – every single one of Tuor's son's descendants had the uncanny knack for getting themselves into trouble of the most diverse and – for an objective observer – entertaining kind.

A small, almost undetectable smile spread over the elf's bruised countenance as he remembered that particular conversation. It had been after a feast, a large feast – which one had it been? The _Yestarë_-Feast or maybe something else? He really couldn't remember, something which, under more normal circumstances, would have bothered him to no end. He didn't possess too many character traits of which he was openly proud, but one of them was that he possessed an impeccable memory. He didn't _forget _things, no matter how insignificant, something quite a few elves had learnt over the past few millennia. Lord Erestor always remembered everything, and those who forgot that were usually reminded of it in rather unpleasant ways.

It didn't matter, the more reasonable part of him finally decided with a small shrug that served to send a wave of red-hot pain through his body, through his torso and all the way down to his feet. It had been after a feast, and both he and Glorfindel had been in high spirits due to quite large amounts of wine they had consumed. He didn't remember who had started the whole conversation, but what he did know was that, in the end, they had come to the conclusion that Elrond's line was cursed with the worst luck either of them had ever heard of – and that meant quite a lot, considering that one of them had already been dead once.

Glorfindel, unable to concede a point to him without arguing, had of course insisted that the whole thing hadn't started with Eärendil. In his opinion, Tuor had been little better, which might actually have been true. That, however, was something Erestor had been unwilling to concede, and so the evening had ended like many others, namely with Elrond telling them to stop disrespecting his family and to be silent, in Elbereth's name. At least the half-elf had tried to say something like that – he'd had some trouble articulating more complex sentences, due to the fact that he, too, had had more wine that usual…

Erestor hadn't even realised that he was losing himself in daydreams – and even if he had, he would most likely not have cared overly much – when he was torn out of the same by a sound he had come to dread: Heavy footsteps that were moving into the direction of the cell. The mental picture of Glorfindel grinning at him with that infuriating, smug grin of his disappeared like smoke in the wind, and Erestor actually had to blink to concentrate on his surroundings. He found it harder and harder to see clearly, which could be connected to the fact that he hadn't slept in longer than he could remember. It could also be connected to something else entirely, but the councilman firmly refused to think about that.

The footsteps that had seemed so far away only a second ago suddenly stopped and the sound of a key turning in the lock could be heard, and the small, reasonable and, most importantly, objective part of Erestor decided that he was in a truly bad shape. His body would have been able to deal with malnutrition, or lack of water, or broken bones, cuts and bruises and continuing cold – separately, that was. Combined it was proving to be too much even for the constitution of an elf who was known for his stubbornness and inability to give up, and Erestor was beginning to suspect that, someday very soon, it wouldn't matter whether or not he clung to this realm or not.

The dark-haired elf lord shuddered, unable to suppress his body's reaction to that rather morbid thought. He didn't know whether or not he even cared about that, and that was beginning to scare him more than anything else that had happened until now.

All such thoughts vanished from his mind as the door swung open and bright light poured into the small, dark space. Once his eyes had adjusted to the sudden brightness – that, too, was beginning to take longer and longer – Erestor could hardly suppress a tired sigh. He might have wished that someone would come so that he may learn what had happened to Elrond's son and Prince Legolas, but that most certainly didn't include Gasur. 

The man in question managed to rush into the room, which was quite an achievement in Erestor's eyes. There was hardly enough space for two men, so it was no small feat to enter it in such a manner. The elf shrugged inwardly. He guessed that the man had had a lot of practice; if there was one thing that could be said about him, it was that he loved to make grand entrances. Oh, and that he was completely insane, of course.

Gasur stopped, nodded at one of the guards to place a torch in one of the cracks between two stone blocks, and waited motionlessly until the door had closed behind him. The door was still moving slightly when the man lunged forward, grasped the motionless elf by the throat and pulled him into a standing position. Erestor didn't even have the time to feel white-hot agony flare up his left leg when the man's hand closed around his neck and constricted his breathing like a metal vice.

"This is all your fault, _elf_!" Gasur hissed at him, sounding ridiculously like a snake someone had just trodden on the tail. "You freed them!"

Erestor didn't even try to struggle, knowing it to be only a waste of time and energy. Two weeks ago, he would have had no problem freeing himself (and no problem breaking Gasur's nose in the process), but right now he didn't have the strength to fight off a couple of hobbit children armed with sticks. He only grinned as best as he was able, even though he knew that it would make Gasur only madder.

"Yes."

The madness that usually lay dormant in the man's eyes awoke like a startled predator, and with an almost animalistic snarl Gasur tightened his hold on the elf's neck.  
"I tire of you, _elf_. You haven't learned _anything_, have you!"

The dark-haired elf only looked back at him, his face turning whiter and whiter with each passing second. He didn't say anything, though, and only kept scrutinising the man with that calm, confident look of his, and just before his eyes rolled up into his head and he lost consciousness Gasur released him and stepped back with an angry curse. 

Erestor collapsed where he stood, too busy breathing to be able to grasp his chains to try and stay upright. Gasur waited for him to regain his breath, his own chest heaving as if he'd just run several miles. The man was staring down at his prisoner with a look of such disgust and malice that it would have made even the most experienced orc captain proud, even though that, too, was lost on the elf on the floor. His lungs were still burning like fire, and the last thing he cared about at the moment was the way Gasur looked at him.

"How?" the man finally demanded in a tight, angry voice. "How did you free them, _elf_?"

Erestor was still breathing heavily, his uninjured hand grasping his bruised throat, but then he lifted his head and gave the man in front of him a cold look.  
"Elf magic," he answered simply.

A very small part of Erestor was still able to savour the look of surprise that flashed over Gasur's face. The surprise, however, was quickly replaced by fury, and only a second later a blow to his face slammed his skull backwards, against the wall at his back. Darkness mingled with the pain that washed over him, and with a quick prayer to the One that he was only imagining the cry of pain that still rang in his head Erestor clung to consciousness like a drowning man would cling to a log. He couldn't lose consciousness now – even though he dearly wished he could – not before he had learned what had happened to the two young ones.

"Don't lie to me," Gasur's voice hissed at him through the fog that enveloped his brain. "Try to tell that to Reod, not to me! I know you were behind it, I know it! You will pay for that, trust me on it!"

The sheer absurdity of the man's words made Erestor open his eyes, and he forced to fix his uncooperative eyes on the dark-haired captain who appeared to be only one step away from a heart attack. If only, the elf thought dreamily.

"Will I?" he asked, tilting his head the tiniest bit to the side. "What will you do, human? Torture me? Threaten to execute me, or those I care about? Oh, wait," he added scathingly. "You lost them, didn't you?" 

He had thought it unlikely, but Gasur's face really could turn even redder. Now resembling an infuriated beetroot more than anything else, the captain stared at his prisoner, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"It's all your fault," he repeated himself. "You helped them escape." Erestor only kept looking at him, his eyes cold and hard and utterly emotionless in his face, and so Gasur added, "It hasn't helped them, though. They got farther than I had expected, much farther, but we still got them in the end." Erestor didn't show any reaction to the man's words, didn't even bat an eyelid, and he repeated, "We got them. They are dead."

"Strange," Erestor commented softly, almost to himself. "I knew you were an angry coward, but I didn't know you were a liar, too." 

"Keep talking, _elf_," Gasur told him friendly, his mood apparently improving slightly. "I will remember your words, never fear. I do not lie, however. Your friends got out of the city, but they didn't escape us. We hunted them down like _dogs_, do you hear me? And, in the end, when we had them cornered like two rats, we killed them. Just like that." 

Erestor forcibly squashed the small flicker of doubt that appeared in his chest, telling himself firmly that the man was lying. He wanted to break him, make him lose all the hope he had still left, nothing more.   
"You lie," he said emotionlessly. "You lie, just like the rest of your kind. You could tell me that rain is wet and I still wouldn't believe you."

"Believe what you want," Gasur shrugged, managing quite nicely to convey that that didn't concern him in the slightest. "It doesn't change anything, though. They are dead. I took care of them myself, and took my time, too." He leaned forward slightly, apparently getting into the spirit of things. "I killed the boy first, and made the elf watch while I did it. He was quite strong for such a young one, but in the end he died like everyone else, calling out for his mother, like all young ones do sooner or later. And after that, I killed the elf, too." 

Relief so strong that he would almost have laughed aloud pulsed through Erestor's being, and he could barely hide a broad smile. He had hoped that Gasur would provide him with the proof that he was lying, and now he had, even though it had happened unwittingly. If he had talked about the prince like this, he might have believed it (even though he doubted it, because he _was _Thranduil's son), but Estel…

Erestor closed his eyes for a second, thanking all the Valar he could think of. Elrond's foster son barely remembered his parents, for they had died when he had been very young. He might have believed that Estel would call for Elrond, or the twins or even Glorfindel, but Lady Gilraen … no, that was just too far-fetched. Gasur was lying, he _had _to be lying. 

"You didn't," he simply stated as calmly as he could. "They are alive." An emotion Erestor couldn't quite identify appeared on the man's face, maybe the thirst for revenge or simply boundless hate, but he ignored it, leaning forward as much as his broken body and his chains would allow him. "Let me tell you what I think happened: They escaped you. They eluded you and your men, and you had to return home empty-handed. What did your lady do, Gasur? How did she react? Has she demoted you? Has she revoked some of your privileges?" 

A strong hand once again grasped him by the front of what remained of his shirt and slammed his back against the wall, knocking all air out of his lungs. That must have been it, Erestor thought dazedly, and decided that this was the first of Acalith's decisions he approved of.

"Hold your tongue, _elf_!" the captain growled, pulling his prisoner forward and slamming him back against the wall once more for good measure. "I am not interested in your thoughts or opinions! I have been given another chance to learn what you know, so I would advise you to start talking! I am not in the mood to play this game of yours!"

"Neither am I," Erestor assured the man, gathering all his remaining strength to keep his voice calm and steady and not to betray the pain that pulsed through him with every beat of his heart. "I have given you my answer, you and your lady, more times than I can count. You killed my guards, threaten my home and my lord and now claim to have killed two more of my companions. In what world could I ever have helped you?"

Gasur's only answer was another blow to the head, and while Erestor waited for his skull to stop ringing, he decided that this was a bad sign. Gasur had never been what one would call patient or self-controlled, but this was definitely worse than usual. He realised that he was beginning to consider Gasur's treatment of him as normal, something that only served to increase the nausea and dizziness that were clouding his brain.

"You elves never learn, do you?" Gasur asked softly while he watched as a trickle of blood slowly began to make its way down the elf's bruised collarbone. "You have seen everything, and know everything. You always have to tell everyone else what to do and what to think. And you are so _ unafraid _of death, the whole lot of you." The man paused and leaned forward until his face was mere inches away from the dark-haired elf's very pale one. "You know what? I don't think that's true. You _are _afraid. Aren't you?"

Erestor felt how the fist that was bunched in the front of his shirt began to press down onto his windpipe again, demanding an answer, and he slowly opened his eyes, praying to Elbereth Gilthoniel for composure. Gasur was right in a way, after all, he _was _afraid – not of dying, though, but only of not being strong enough to keep his silence before he departed this realm and journeyed to Mandos' Halls. More than anything else he feared that he would break and would tell these people what they wanted to know, that he would betray Elrond and Rivendell and everything and everyone he had sworn to protect with his life. 

Even thought the man was right, he would be damned if he would betray his fears to _Gasur _of all people. He didn't even allow Glorfindel to win an argument without fighting, so he would most certainly not concede this to this insane, angry little man.

"I do not fear death," Erestor said evenly, his voice made strong and calm by the fact that that was indeed the truth. "I do not fear to die, and would gladly sacrifice my life for my home, my lord and my friends." He paused and gave Gasur a cold look. "Would you, human?"

Erestor didn't even need to see the anger well up in the other's eye to know that no, Gasur would most decidedly not. The man did not answer and merely let go of him without a single word, causing him to collapse once more. Gasur gave him a last, burning look before he turned around and rapped sharply on the door, demanding in a loud voice that the door should be opened and the prisoner brought to the interrogation room.

The dark-haired councillor felt the by now familiar panic rise inside of him as the door opened and two burly guards moved into the cell, preparing to open his chains and drag him out of the room. This time, however, there was something else amidst the fear and dread; a small bright flicker of hope that wouldn't be extinguished no matter what.

Aragorn and Legolas had escaped, he was sure of it. They lived and would bring back help as soon as they could. They were too much their fathers' sons to be killed by a group of half-trained human guards; they would make it back to Aberon and would warn Elrohir and the others. Help was on its way, he only had to hang on for a little while longer.

It wasn't much of a hope, not really, but it was a lot more than he'd had twenty minutes ago.   
**  
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The sun was slowly rising in the east, struggling to break through the grey, leaden clouds that covered the sky. The first tendrils of light managed to filter through the clouds, turning them a faint, delicate pink that would have made a man immensely rich, could he have mixed a dye of that colour.

This, however, was completely lost on the small group of riders that were making their way up the path that led to the front gate of Aberon. The gloomy mood that hung over their heads was almost thick enough to grasp, and not one of them would have been very surprised had a cloud been visible above them.

The displeasure and anger was thickest around a tall, dark-haired elf riding a grey horse, and in his case, the cloud would have included a small hailstorm complete with thunder and lightning. It wasn't much of a surprise either, Elrohir thought darkly to himself. He had failed, after all, failed completely and utterly and in a way that he would never be able to explain to Elladan or his father. He was already dreading their eventual reunion, and only his sense of honour stopped him from seriously contemplating travelling to the Grey Havens and boarding a ship to the Blessed Realm.

It wasn't only his sense of honour that was stopping him, he admitted to himself a moment later. It was also the fact that he would never make such a decision without Elladan, even though he would never admit it to his twin. The mere thought of spending all eternity without his brother was enough to make cold shivers run down his back.

Still, he thought, he had failed, not only his father and brother but also Estel and Legolas. They had, after all, found nothing except lots of tracks and mud. The dark-haired elven twin rubbed his brow while he closed his eyes and slowly shook his head from side to side, trusting his horse to follow the path up to the main gate. Everything was conspiring against them lately, wasn't it?

They had followed the tracks they had found yesterday afternoon, all the way to the shores of the Mitheithel. There they had been joined by so many other tracks that they had needed almost two hours to even develop an idea of what might have happened there. When they had, his heart had plummeted straight into his stomach, quickly followed by his brain. Isál had grabbed him just in time to prevent him from following the tracks back to their source and kill every single man he found there.

When he had calmed down somewhat – he was truly becoming almost as bad as Elladan – he had forced himself to think as clearly and rationally as he could. The tracks they had found had belonged to a large group of horsemen that had been joined by another, even larger one close to the Hoarwell. While the first group had been approaching the river from the north, the second had approached it from the west, and they had also found signs of a third one that had come from the south. Elrohir could still feel how hot anger surged through him at this particular thought. Even a first-year novice would recognise this as the trap it was.

What not every first-year novice would be able to discover was the fourth set of tracks that had been almost completely covered by the other three. The tracks of two people who had been travelling on foot, not horseback, and who had clearly been on the run from the other three groups. Elrohir ground his teeth. He didn't need his father's foresight to guess to whom these tracks had belonged. 

The worst part, however, was that they had ended, and abruptly at that. The warrior who had discovered them had stated hesitantly that it looked as if the two persons – no one had to say out loud who those two most likely were – had jumped into the Hoarwell, something that couldn't be true since no sane person would ever do that in this kind of weather.

Elrohir, however, had no such doubts and knew the extends of his brother's madness only too well. Aragorn would jump into the Hoarwell without hesitation or doubt, especially when Legolas' life or his own were threatened and if the only other option was recapture. The twin smiled grimly. Oh yes, his brother would have done just that. 

They had of course followed the tracks back southwards, and had all the way tried to spy their missing companions on the other side of the river, or at least spy the spot where they had left the stream. The Hoarwell was broad, yes, but not too broad for the keen eyes of elves. Night had been falling, however, and even though they had searched until only a few hours ago, they had found nothing. That could mean only two things: One, that they had missed something or that Aragorn or Legolas had concealed their tracks well, or two, that they hadn't left the river.

The second one was a possibility Elrohir was _not _willing to entertain even in his own mind.

They had finally realised that they wouldn't find anything, and had turned their horses around. They would need to cross the river at Aberon before they could search the other side of the stream – a delay that was wearing all their nerves thin. Isál had managed to convince him to make a short stop at Aberon to get some more healing supplies, blankets and food – just in case they found something, or rather someone. Elrohir had consented in the end, but was determined that it would be the shortest stop in history of recorded time. He knew that Aragorn and Legolas were alive (and most likely in need of help and medical attention), he just knew it, and he would be damned if he wasted one more second than absolutely necessary.

The twin's horse stopped suddenly, tearing Elrohir out of his musings. He looked up unwillingly, only to discover that they had reached the main gate that was just opening for daily traffic. There were already a few carts and travellers waiting in front of it, all of whom were staring at the elven travelling party behind them.

Right now, Elrohir couldn't have cared less what the humans thought about them, and so he merely gave every human who glanced his way the _look _until it was their turn to pass the gates. They were allowed to enter the city without any trouble, and Elrohir was forced to admit to himself that Toran was obviously rather thick-skinned. The man hadn't given the guards the order to keep them out of the town, something that he had been half expecting after their last … conversation.

They rode down the street until they reached the main plaza where the first stalls were opening now, and Elrohir moved his horse to the side, both in order not to draw any unnecessary attention and because he didn't want to block the street. The people of Aberon already didn't like them; there was no need to give them one more reason.

"Very well," he turned back to his men with a dark frown that would have impressed even one of the Nine, "You know what to get. I will be leaving in exactly five minutes. Those who aren't back by then will have to remain here. Is that understood?"

The warriors mumbled affirmatives, but before one of them could even dismount, a hooded figure stepped up to them, taking great care not to be seen by any of the townspeople. He stopped in front of Elrohir's horse, apparently unimpressed by the two elven warriors right and left of him who were very openly grasping the hilts of their swords. 

"You need to come with me, my lord," he said softly, quickly looking over his shoulder to make sure that the horses all around him were still hiding him from view. "Quickly, before anyone sees me talking to you."

It took Elrohir a second to identify the voice, but when he did he frowned openly.  
"Master Tibron?"

The man in front of him sighed almost inaudibly and raised his head, looking Elrohir in the eye, a strange urgency on his face.  
"Yes, Lord Elrohir. Please, you must come with me. You can bring two or three of your men if you like, but no more. It would draw too much attention."

"Why?" Elrohir asked suspiciously. He liked Tibron and trusted him, at least to a certain degree, but that didn't mean that he would just follow him. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We cannot talk now," Tibron shook his head curtly, a long strand of blond hair falling forward across his brow. "Not here. Please, my lord. Trust me."

Elrohir looked at the man for a few seconds without saying a word, but then he nodded soundlessly and began to dismount, quietly telling Isál to pick two men and follow him. He was too old and had lived too long to trust other people just like that, but this time he had the very distinct feeling that something import had happened.

A few seconds later the four elves had dismounted, and in the blink of an eye they had disappeared down a narrow, dark alley, following a hooded person that leisurely strolled down the alleyway as if he had all the time in the world.

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TBC...

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_Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March_

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See? They're safe - kind of. Or are they? •evil grin• Tibron could be evil as well, after all... Who knows? •even more evil grin• We'll see, I guess. Next chapter, that is. •ducks various sharp and/or pointy objects• Okay, okay, I'll stop enjoying this so much. Reviews are still very much appreciated, so: Review? Please?

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**Additional A/N:**

Sorry guys, but I really don't have the time to reply to all my lovely reviews. I would love to, really, but I still haven't started packing yet. I really ought to get that done, I guess. I will keep replying though, I think - no matter what FF-net thinks - even though I'll try to keep the replies much shorter than before.

I loved all your reviews, of course, and I'll promise that I'll reply to the next bunch. Thank you for your understading, and I hope you're not too cross! •sheepish smile• 


	28. Against the Tide

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

•winces and carefully steps into the update• Uhm. Hey. First of all, calm down. •waves chair and whip• That's it, calm down. What are ... hmm, seven days among friends? •ducks quickly• Jeez, apparently quite a lot. Well, what can I say - RL finally got a hold of me. I just realised that I have three written exams next week, an oral one sometime after that, and just finished a paper yesterday. I was still at it at 4 am in the morning. •shudders• And because that's not enough, they're closing our library for "refurbishing" or something like that. Apparently RL hasn't only caught up with me, it hates me, too. •shrugs• Welcome to my life.

I have also decided that, due to FF-net new rules of terror, I will no longer reply to reviews at the end of each chapter after this post. Viggomaniac has kindly told me about her idea of sending an email to all those who have reviewed, and I think I'll try it out for a while. Those who don't want to be included can either review anonymously or just say so in their reviews. I hope this is a bearable compromise: This way I can reply to all the reviews and don't have to send individual emails - it's almost as good as before. I will also remove all prior review responses on the weekend, if I can find the time. I don't want to give FF-net any reason to ban my account or something like that. I am really sorry about all this, but it's their new way of amusing themselves, I guess. •shrugs sadly•

Anyway, on to the next chapter. We will find out whether or not Tibron is evil (Isál thinks he is, but what else is new?), Aragorn and Elrohir have a little reunion, Aragorn also manages to antagonise the people caring for him - surprise, surprise! - and Elrond and Glorfindel have a little conversation. It's not all too happy, no. •g•

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 28

Elrohir frowned deeply while he stared at Tibron's back. Said back was no more than ten yards in front of him, covered with a dark cloak that was only two steps away from being so inconspicuous that it was positively eye-catching, and was right now remarkably rigid.

It wasn't that he had the feeling that the man would betray them. He didn't think that, not really anyway. Yes, the possibility most certainly existed – they _were _in Aberon, after all, and Tibron _was _Toran's brother – but he simply didn't think so. He had been part of diplomatic delegations before, and had become quite adept at judging other people. Coupled with the abilities he had inherited from his parents, he was sure that Tibron honestly wanted to help them and wouldn't try to harm them in any way.

No, that wasn't the problem at all. The problem was that he _didn't _have that feeling. And if he didn't have that feeling, it could only mean that Tibron had found out something, or heard something. And he didn't really have to try and use his gift of foresight to figure out to whom the whole matter would be connected.

Elrohir felt how his breath caught in his throat. Valar, what would he do if Tibron wanted to tell them that Legolas and Estel were truly dead?

Coming to the decision that he didn't really want to know, the elven twin forced himself to concentrate on what was happening here and now. Even though he had the feeling that Tibron wouldn't betray them, he would be damned if he led his men into a trap. His feelings had been wrong before, after all, and he didn't intend to make the same mistake he had made a few months ago when they had reached Baredlen, Girion's city. Elrohir felt how his teeth ground together at the mere memory. He didn't have to be reminded of how _that _had ended, and they had been _expecting _to walk into a trap then.

With a last dark look at the man in front of him who was leisurely strolling down the road he turned back to Isál, doing his utmost best to look as inconspicuous as someone wearing a hood on a relatively warm day could.  
"Anything?" he asked curtly.

Isál didn't stop letting his gaze wander over his surroundings as he shook his head. He didn't even turn around to look his lord and friend in the eye; he, too, had no wish to be responsible for leading his men into a trap. He didn't like Tibron any more than he liked the rest of Aberon's inhabitants, no matter what Elrohir, Estel and the rest thought, and if it had been up to him, he would never have left their companions behind. 

"Nothing," he admitted, sounding rather unhappy about that fact, as if he would have preferred it if one of his two men who had been allowed to accompany them had discovered some sign of treachery. "No one is paying us any attention."

Elrohir nodded almost imperceptibly; that was just what he had thought. The streets were still relatively empty due to the early hour, most shops he could see were still closed, and the few humans they met were far too busy to pay a group of four strangers much heed. If they were lucky, no one would have noticed that they had left the rest of their party to follow Tibron. The elf snorted almost immediately. Just when had been the last time any member of his family had been that lucky?

A small part of him was calmly informing him that it had been about half a century ago when he once again turned back to Isál, trying to start a conversation to quell his own fears and doubts more than anything else.   
"I hope the rest gets back to the stables safe and sound, without any incident or being questioned about our absence. Whom did you leave in charge of the men?"

Isál's face was half-hidden by the hood of his cloak, but Elrohir was rather sure that the other elf suddenly looked quite self-conscious. In fact, he looked like an elfling who had been caught doing something he had known he shouldn't have been doing.  
"One of my commanders, my lord."

Elrohir shot Tibron a quick look, ascertaining that he was still following the main street, before he returned his attention to the brown-haired captain.  
"Which one, Isál? Not Meneldir, surely?"

Isál found a sudden interest in the inside of his hood. Whatever it was that he had discovered there, it must have been riveting enough for him not to give the other elf a single look.  
"Well…"

The twin gave him a passable rendition of his father's _look_.  
"Are you trying to tell me that you put your one commander in charge who loathes humans?"

Isál shook his head quickly, his eyes still fixed on the inside of his hood. How he managed not to walk into people or bump into things Elrohir couldn't quite understand.  
"He doesn't _loathe _humans, my lord. He just can't stand these ones. And besides, I only have two commanders, and the other one is much too young and inexperienced for a task this dangerous and … delicate."

Elrohir's _look _became even more forbidding and he turned fully towards the other elf, trusting the other two elves to make sure they didn't lose Tibron.  
"You are trying to stall, Captain. Did you or did you not leave Commander Meneldir in charge, knowing that he would rather offer his sword to the Lord of Mordor than hold his tongue or keep his calm around these humans here?"

For a moment, it seemed as if Isál wanted to protest, but then he lowered his head and nodded dejectedly, apparently resigned to his fate.   
"Yes, my lord. I did."

To his substantial surprise, Elrohir grinned broadly, as if he had just answered a very important question correctly. A moment later the dark-haired twin even reached out and clapped him on the back, something that awoke in Isál the urge to ask him what exactly he had been drinking without him noticing.

"Well done, Captain," Elrohir declared, sounding like a proud teacher. "As far as I'm concerned, he and the rest of the men can knock as many of the humans' heads together as they wish. If the council complains afterwards, I will tell them to go hang. Literally."

Isál just looked at him, wide-eyed, and finally regained enough control over himself to nod.  
"Yes, my lord."

"You think I'm mad, don't you, Isál?" Elrohir asked jovially while they left the main road and began to walk down a narrower, quieter street. 

"No, my lord."

"Of course you do," Elrohir shook his head, but the mirth that had been dancing in his grey eyes disappeared as quickly as it had come. "And I can't even blame you." Isál had the good grace not to say anything, but Elrohir added seriously, "Your choice was a good one, _mellon nín_. If this is a trap and we do not return, Meneldir will make sure that the men get back home safely, consequences be damned."

Isál was still looking as if he couldn't really believe that Elrohir wasn't disapproving of his decision, but after a few seconds he gave an inward shrug and nodded.  
"He will, my lord. He might cause a few diplomatic incidents on the way, though."

"I couldn't care less," Elrohir said coldly, and the dangerous sparkle in his eyes told everybody very plainly that he meant it, too. "By the Valar, I couldn't care less."

Isál had neither the will nor the desire to disagree, and so it was silent until they reached Tibron's inn, a large house at the end of the alleyway. It lay at the crossway between the alley and the other main street of the town, and was a big, whitewashed building with dark wooden beams and two storeys. There were two smaller building flanking it left and right, a stable and a small shed, and even despite the fact that it was still very early, there were quite a few people coming and going.

As if on an inaudible signal, the four elves stopped at the end of the narrow alley, and Elrohir raised a hand almost imperceptibly. He might not think that Tibron wanted to betray them, but that didn't mean that he would trust him blindly or would put them into such a vulnerable position. The space in front of Tibron's tavern was easily observable, and just because it looked as if there was no one waiting for them didn't mean that it was indeed so. 

The man in front of them had already nearly crossed the street when he seemed to realise that the elves weren't following, and with a quick movement that didn't look the least bit inconspicuous anymore he turned on the heel. A few seconds later he had reached the elves' side, looking back over his shoulder in a way that struck Elrohir as extremely nervous. The dark-haired twin's inner frown deepened. This simply couldn't be good. 

"You must come with me," the man whispered urgently, something that was completely unnecessary in Elrohir's opinion. They were not stupid, after all, and had made sure that there were no humans close-by who would be able to overhear them. "Please, my lord, trust me. We don't have much time." 

"Why?" Elrohir asked bluntly. "Why do we not have much time?" 

"My lord, please, you must…"

"I _must _do nothing," the elf interrupted him scathingly, all his worry and desperation surfacing at once. "Nothing, Master Tibron, except make sure that no more of my warriors and friends will be killed. It is time you answered some questions. What is the meaning of this? Why have you brought us here?"

"I will explain everything, my lord, but you must come with me," Tibron implored, looking very much as if he was only one step away from openly wringing his hands. "If we do not hurry, we'll be caught for sure. Aberon is growing, but it is still little more than a small town. Everyone sees what everybody else does, my lord, and I mean _everything _ everybody else does. In a few minutes, most of the shops will open and people will begin to leave their houses to attend to their daily business. We will be seen, and as soon as that happens, people will talk."

"And then?" Isál asked, his tone of voice almost as dark and uncompromising as his young lord's. "And what then, human?"

"Then all will be lost, Master Elf," Tibron answered simply. "That which you hold dear, and that which I hold dear."

Elrohir didn't answer immediately as he looked at the tall, blond man in front of him. He looked much like his brother Toran, even though there was openness and honesty in his gaze one would have looked for vainly in the councilmember's eyes. Right now, there was something else there, though, Elrohir realised: Fear. Not anxiety or unease, but real fear that seemed to be growing by the second. Tibron wasn't only nervous as he'd thought; the man was close to losing his composure.

"Give me a reason to trust you, Master Tibron," Elrohir finally said quietly, the words being as much a plea as a demand. He wanted to trust him, wanted to believe that the man was honest with them and only wanted to help them, but he wouldn't risk his men's life on a whim. "I wish I wouldn't have to ask this of you, but I must."

The man looked from him to Isál to the other two elves, realising that they all looked the same, namely like stony-faced, forbidding statures. They wouldn't move an inch until he had satisfied their leader's wish, and maybe not even after that. Tibron sighed inwardly – for about the two hundredth time today – and asked himself just what he had done to deserve all this. Ever since he had been ripped out of his well-earned sleep by his son and nephew some hours ago, he had suspected that this day would bring nothing but trouble.

Tibron would almost have laughed bitterly. How little he had known! He was still struggling to accept what Torel had softly and reluctantly told him, and even though his heart rebelled against his oldest nephew's words, his brain knew better than to dismiss them. He knew his brother, and even though a part of him still wanted to deny what he knew to be the truth, he was aware of the fact that Toran would at least be capable of what his own son accused him of. Hurag certainly was, about this he was completely and utterly certain, and that maybe more than anything else had convinced him to give in to the two youths' urgent pleas.

Casting a last quick look over his shoulder, Tibron decided that he had nothing to lose. He had to get them into the house and out of sight, now, and if he didn't manage to convince the elves in the next two minutes, he might as well draw his own dagger and kill himself. He didn't know how much support Hurag had amongst the other council members, but he was very sure that he wouldn't live to find out once the older man discovered what he had done. 

"Your brother sends his greetings, Lord Elrohir."

Even while he was speaking the words, Tibron realised that they might have been a mistake. The three companions of the dark-haired elf lord took a few steps forward, their behaviour frighteningly co-ordinated even though they didn't even look at each other, and their hands reached for the hilts of their swords without a second's hesitation. The elf lord's son didn't move at all, and the only reaction he showed was a slight tilting of his head, as if he was trying to survey him more closely.

"I don't know what you are talking about," the dark-haired elf said tonelessly. "My brother is in Rivendell."

Even despite the seriousness of the situation, Tibron would almost have smiled. He knew that the elf wasn't telling the truth, just like the other knew that he knew.  
"I am not talking about your twin, my lord. I am talking about the ranger, Strider. For his sake – and your friend's – you must come with me now."

The proof that maybe he really shouldn't have said that presented itself almost immediately, and before he could even blink a slender but very, very strong hand had taken hold of his shirt and pushed him against the wall at his back. Even though Tibron was tall for a man, almost as tall as his brother, he had to look up to be able to look the elf in front of him in the eye, something he almost immediately wished he hadn't done. There was something in his eyes, something so dark and frightening that he had to avert his gaze immediately.

"Explain yourself, Master Tibron," Elrohir told him softly in a gentle tone of voice that belied the look in his eyes. "_Now_." 

Slightly winded from the unexpected collision with the wall, Tibron couldn't help but ask himself just why every other elf seemed to have the urge to manhandle him. Had someone written the words "Hit me!" on his forehead and he hadn't noticed ?

"He and the blond elf are safe, in my house," he began, searching for a way to convey as much information as possible in only a few sentences. "They managed to escape from Donrag a day ago. My son and nephew found them and smuggled them into the city. They are injured, and the elf hasn't regained consciousness since he has been brought here, but they are alive." 

"Alive?" Elrohir couldn't stop the softly spoken question that escaped his lips, more a soft breath than an actual word.

"Yes," Tibron nodded his head sharply, looking from the decidedly unconvinced-looking Isál to Elrohir who obviously wanted nothing more than to believe his words. "Alive, my lord, both of them. Please, you can believe me. How else would I know that the ranger considers you his brother?" 

Now even Isál began to look slightly doubtful, which was only too understandable. None of their travelling party had ever referred to Aragorn as anyone else but Strider, a Ranger of the North and a friend of Lord Elrond's family. No one in Aberon knew that he had lived in Rivendell for most of his life, and he had never referred to Elrohir as his brother in public. Elrohir knew that Aragorn would never have told this to anyone he didn't trust, too afraid would the man be to betray this one "weakness" to others who might exploit it.

Elrohir slowly let go of the man's shirt as he came to a decision, but he didn't step back. Tibron could almost feel the rage and fear that rolled off him in waves, and once again the man asked himself just what he'd got himself into this time.

"If you have hurt them, I will kill you," Elrohir said calmly, in a cool, composed tone of voice. "If you have betrayed us and they come to any harm, I will make sure you regret it, even if it is the last thing I ever do. Do we understand each other, Master Tibron?"

"Yes, my lord," Tibron hurried to nod his head as he rotated his neck and took a deep breath, just to assure himself that he still could. "We do. I only wish to help you, that I swear by all the Gods above. Now, will you come with me?"

"Lead the way."

Tibron gave the elf a slightly suspicious look, as if he was expecting to be slammed against another wall, but then he turned around and began to walk over to the main building, apparently too glad that Elrohir had finally agreed to come with him to say anything that might dissuade him. Isál shot Elrohir a look that very clearly stated that he didn't think this to be a good idea which the other ignored, however, and so the younger elf hurried his steps until he had reached the other's side.

"My lord…" he began softly in Sindarin.

"No."

"My lord, please!" Isál tried again, refusing to be dismissed just like this. "Do you think this to be a good idea? He hasn't given us any proof at all that he is telling the truth."

"Yes, he has," Elrohir shook his head without taking his eyes off Tibron's back. The man had casually crossed the road and was right now walking past his tavern, apparently aiming for a side entrance that was half-visible to their right, just around the corner. "No one here knows that Estel is my brother. No one, not even those who have traded with Rivendell for a long time; father has made sure of that. Estel would never have told someone about it willingly, unless he had to in order to ensure our co-operation. That means that he either trusts Tibron or is hurt and therefore doesn't know what he is doing. It doesn't matter which one is the case here. I will not stand by while my brother and friend need my help."

"It might be a trick, Elrohir," Isál tried once more. "Tibron may have acted as if he wanted to help your brother, only to turn all of us in the first chance he gets!"

"You might be right," the twin nodded calmly, his mind apparently set. "It might be. If it is, we'll be prepared for it."

"Walking into a trap and hoping we will escape it because we do it with open eyes, is that what we are doing?" Isál asked, sounding slightly incredulous.

"Perhaps," Elrohir admitted. "It seems to have worked just fine for Glorfindel in the past."

"True, my lord. But only barely."

Before Elrohir could retort something, Tibron had reached the door, and all of his attention immediately focused on the blond man as he raised a hand and knocked. For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Tibron had to call upon all of his self-control in order not to look over his shoulder. He could almost feel the four elves' eyes burning eight little holes into his back, and he suddenly was rather glad that he didn't have to look at them and meet their gazes.

Just when Tibron was inwardly debating whether the elf lord's son or his captain would be the first to try and strangle him the wooden door opened the tiniest bit. A single brown eye appeared in the crack, peering at them fearfully, but after a second or two the door was opened completely, revealing the slim figure of a boy who hadn't yet reached manhood. It took Elrohir a few moments to figure out of whom he reminded him: Torel, Toran's son, even though this boy's hair was slightly longer and he was obviously a few years younger. It had to be the son Tibron had spoken about a few minutes ago, he concluded.

Tibron nodded at the boy and briefly reached out to touch his arm, and Elrohir felt how he relaxed minutely at this short display of fatherly affection. He knew that it didn't matter whether or not Tibron loved his son – he could still be betraying them to Hurag or even to his brother, but still…

The blond man quickly entered the house, and after taking a deep breath Elrohir followed him, Isál and the other two warriors following as well. The boy waited until they had all passed him by, his eyes wide and slightly fearful in his pale face, before he closed the door behind them as softly and soundlessly as he could. Elrohir gave him a quick look, dismissed him as a threat and returned his attention to Tibron, who was swiftly walking down the corridor they had entered.

Elrohir began to follow the man, his eyes wandering over their surroundings. The hallway was rather narrow, with dark, wooden panelling covering the walls, and rather dusty, too. The only sounds he could hear came from further to their left, from the direction of the main part of the building. It was clear that this was a part of the inn that wasn't used at the moment, something that was only emphasised by the empty candlesticks they passed now and then and the cobwebs that were visible at the ceiling and in the corners. 

Under normal circumstances, Elrohir wouldn't have cared at all what the hallway looked like. Now, however, all it did was add to the suspicion that he was out of his mind.

Before his mood could become even darker – something that would have been quite hard, if not impossible, as any objective observer would have assured him – the sound of a hushed conversation could be heard. It was clear that the humans didn't hear anything, but to the elves' ears the two voices were clearly audible. One Elrohir didn't recognise, but the sound of the other was enough to almost send him into a spontaneous fit of elation, no matter how soft and weak it sounded.

"…are doing it wrong."

"I am doing it wrong, boy? _I_? You can barely sit up, so please forgive me for failing to be properly impressed by your assessment."

"You are still doing it wrong."

"And _you _will soon have a far more pressing problem than trying to get out of bed, that I swear to you by the Great Ones themselves!" 

Elrohir exchanged a look with Isál that was overjoyed, annoyed and amused at the same time. Tibron and his son frowned in confusion, because their human hearing was not nearly good enough to hear the soft conversation through the thick wooden door they were nearing. The Valar be praised, Elrohir thought fervently. It sounded as if Aragorn was more or less all right. He was already antagonising the person who was looking after him, after all.

A few seconds later they had reached the door, and before Elrohir could organise his frantically swirling thoughts, Tibron reached out and pulled it open. Another second later they had entered the room, and the elven twin's mind suddenly seemed to go blank, as if something or someone had reached into his head and erased all his thoughts.

There was not much to see in this room anyway, a part of the elf noted. It was a rather large chamber, windowless and therefore rather dark. There was a fire burning in the hearth, though, and two candlesticks with beeswax candles provided further light that danced over the dark wooden panelling that covered the walls. Two beds were visible, standing in the far right and the far left corner of the room, as well as a chest, a small table, two chairs and a stool.

The stool had been dragged between the two beds and was occupied by a man dressed in simple, brown and grey clothes. He was holding a small knife in one of his hands that automatically set Elrohir's nerves on edge, and was wearing a scowl that looked a lot like the one the twin had seen on Gaerîn's face when she had been informed that she would be responsible for Glorfindel's well-being, after the golden-haired elf's little accident. 

The person who was apparently responsible for the man's ill humour was occupying one of the beds, and was right now rather unsuccessfully trying to sit up, a similar scowl on his face. The other bed was occupied as well, by a still figure that was almost invisible in the shadows of the far side of the room. Even though the stillness of the latter person alarmed the part of Elrohir's that had been trained in the healing arts, he couldn't help but return his full attention to the young man glaring at the other human. He seemed to be so concentrated on that – and on not sinking back into the pillows at his back once more – that he hadn't even heard the door open.

He was pale, Elrohir noticed calmly. Far too pale, and there was a white bandage encircling his head that already showed the first signs of fresh bleeding. His posture was far too stiff, and even though he couldn't quite see it, the elf was sure that there was something seriously wrong with his right wrist. There were bruises and abrasions on his face and the rest of his body, and the exhaustion that radiated off him was almost palpable.

But he was alive, and therefore the most beautiful sight Elrohir had seen in a long time.

The dark-haired elf was moving before he had even decided to do so, and the young man had just enough time to turn his head before he reached his side. There was a relieved, happy light in his eyes and the beginnings of a smile on his lips when Elrohir reached him, and a second later he was buried in a hug that quite literally robbed him of all the breath he had.

Deciding that he wouldn't trouble himself with trivialities such as breathing, Aragorn ignored the lack of air and his body's complaints and closed his eyes, enjoying his elven brother's embrace.

"Estel," Elrohir breathed softly, unconsciously tightening his hold on his younger brother. "_Egleriar no aen i eneth Eru Ilúvatar. Cuinach._"

Aragorn didn't laugh, but only because he knew that it would hurt. Besides, he didn't have the energy or the air to do something as foolish as laughing.  
"_Cuinon, muindor,_" he answered just as softly. "_Sedho. Men cuin a berian aen._"

If the man wished to reassure his elven brother, his plan failed rather spectacularly. The elf released him only after several long moments, and when he did he looked at his brother with a mixture of relief, disbelief and renewed worry.

"Valar, Estel," he went on, still speaking in Elvish even despite (or maybe because) of the mildly displeased looks the other humans were giving him. "Don't you have any mercy? I would almost have returned to father with the news of your demise!"

"I am sorry," the man smiled up at his brother. "Sometimes I just can't help myself."

Elrohir didn't say anything and merely smiled back, all the fear and worry that had been clouding his face for the past days melting away in that very instant. He didn't notice the half-exasperated and half-anxious looks Tibron gave him or the open smiles that were visible on the faces of Isál and his men, and only when the man sitting on the stool shifted slightly, the sparse light catching on the knife he held in his hands, he looked up sharply. Without even realising it he shifted slightly, putting himself between his younger brother and the potential source of danger.

"Who are you?"

The question, spoken in a voice that was just barely civil, prompted Tibron to take a step forward, even despite the warning look the elven captain shot him. He didn't like intruding on this reunion either, the man thought to himself darkly, and under different circumstances he would even have admired the captain's loyalty to his lord and his desire to protect his privacy, but right now he was more concerned with stopping said lord from killing one of his servants. Considering the way the dark-haired elf eyed the man and especially the knife he was holding, that possibility didn't sound all that far-fetched either.

"Giras means you or the ranger no harm, Master Elf," he tried to reassure Elrohir. "He knows a thing or two about healing. I didn't want to risk sending for a healer."

"You couldn't think of one that would not betray us?" Isál asked darkly.

Tibron didn't answer immediately and just looked at the dark-haired elf, and even though his look was nowhere near as powerful or intimidating as Lord Elrond's, Isál was still impressed by the powerful emotions he could see behind the man's guarded blue-grey eyes.

"Please consider my position for a moment, Master Elf," Tibron told him, trying not to think of the time this very elf had nearly strangled him. "And then ask me again, if you must."

Not even Isál could think of something to say to that, and Elrohir returned his attention to his human brother who was trying his best not to give in to his body's demands and sink back into his pillows.

"What happened, Estel?" he asked, this time in Westron. "What happened to you? Where are you hurt? How did you get back here? What…" 

"Oh, I can answer a few of your questions," Giras, the man sitting on the stool, interrupted the elf in mid-tirade. Elrohir closed his mouth with a snap and gave him the _look_, but the man was apparently far too busy glaring at Aragorn to pay the displeased elf next to him any attention. "He has so many cuts and bruises that one could easily confuse him with someone whose house has collapsed on top of him, two shoulders that were dislocated not too long ago, a concussion, the beginnings of a serious cold and a broken wrist he won't let me touch!"

"Two dislocated shoulders!"

Aragorn ignored his brother's incredulous gasp and gave the man a dark look.  
"I do not have a cold."

"And that matters how?" Elrohir asked indignantly, staring at the man with appalled eyes. "Is he speaking the truth, _muindor nín_?" 

"Partly," Aragorn admitted with a weak, annoyed wave of his left hand. "It hardly matters. Please, Elrohir, look after Legolas. The wound on his neck is infected."

"I know enough about healing to know that such a wound must be opened and drained, boy," Giras announced in the tone of voice of somebody who had been repeating himself quite a lot lately. "I know what I am doing. My father is a healer."

"So is mine," Elrohir answered curtly and held out his hand, palm-up. "Thank you for your help, Master Human. I will take it from here." 

Giras glared at the elf, noticed that it didn't impress him in the slightest and finally looked at his employer. Tibron fervently nodded his head, and so he slowly and reluctantly handed over the knife as he stood up, grumbling softly under his breath. Tibron nodded at him again and told him softly that he was dismissed, and a second later he was gone. 

Elrohir hadn't even turned to watch him leave and had rather walked over to the second bed and pulled back the blankets that covered the still form occupying it. His expression did not change at the sight in front of him, but Isál had known him long enough to notice the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw muscles. The twin didn't like what he was seeing, and Isál didn't have to be a seer or a genius to guess what it might be.

The dark-haired twin looked at the motionless body of his friend for quite a while before he slowly raised his head and turned large, half-astonished and half-incredulous eyes on his human brother who was once again trying to manoeuvre himself into an upright position.  
"Just what happened to the two of you, Estel?"

"The 'Fox'," Aragorn answered curtly, a sudden, shadowy expression flittering over his face before it disappeared again. "And an ice-cold river."

"The 'Fox'?" Elrohir asked, only half-listening to what the man was saying as he began to examine Legolas more closely. The other elf was covered with bandages, but it looked suspiciously as if there were burns on his chest and arms, along with a long cut that began somewhere above his left elbow and ended on his back. He was at least as bruised as Aragorn, and if the amount of bandages that was wrapped around his torso was any indication at all, there was also something wrong with his ribs. The elven twin sighed softly. The two of them never did anything half-way, did they? "Isn't he floating in the Long Lake?" 

"If only," Aragorn commented softly, and there was so much rage in his voice that Elrohir looked up from his patient, startled. Estel was not one prone to spontaneous fits of rage, and to hear him speak of someone with so much hate in his voice was … unusual, to say the least. Then again, Elrohir reasoned calmly, his eyes returning to Legolas' still form, maybe not.

Deciding that he would talk with the man about this later – after he had patched him up and pounded some sense into that thick head of his – Elrohir turned around to look at Tibron, an unreadable expression on his face.   
"Would it be possible for you to have some hot water brought here?" he asked politely. He quickly calculated how much bandages they had with them and how many they would need, and added after a moment, "And some additional bandages, if possible."

Tibron smiled thinly and inclined his head. He was not stupid, and recognised when he was being dismissed. He took Vonar's arm and gently pushed the boy into the direction of the door before he turned back and gave Elrohir a small bow.  
"Certainly, Master Elf. I will bring you what you need." 

"That would be most kind of you," Elrohir nodded. Tibron returned the gesture, and when the man was already turning to leave the room, the twin added, "Thank you."

Tibron only nodded once again, knowing that the elf wasn't referring to the bandages and the water, and a moment later he had left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Elrohir waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade, gently probing the fair-haired elf's injuries, before he returned his attention to his brother.  
"Is it true what he told us? That he and his son helped you?" 

"Yes," Aragorn nodded tiredly. He had serious trouble staying awake, now that Elrohir was here and he didn't have to keep watch anymore. He had awoken some hours ago, shortly after they had been brought here, and had refused to give in to his body's wishes and allow himself to lose consciousness once again. "Tibron's son and his cousin found us and brought us here, risking their lives and Hurag's wrath in the process."

"We owe them a debt of gratitude, then," Elrohir said seriously, reaching out and carefully grasping his younger brother's uninjured hand, as if he was afraid that he might shatter if he handled him too roughly. "A debt we will never be able to repay." Realising that the young human didn't know what to say, he replaced his far too cold hand on the bed and added, "I'll clean Legolas' cut as soon as we have some water here. Is there anything else I should know?"

Aragorn frowned as he tried to force his scattered thoughts into something resembling an order. There was something he knew he should tell the others, but what?  
"He has a lot of burns," he finally said. "On his chest and arms. His ribs also suffered some damage; I do not know how serious it is, I never had the time to examine him properly. The infected cut is the most dangerous wound right now, even though I worry about the wound to his side, too. He lost a lot of blood."

"I see," Elrohir nodded calmly, doing his best to watch the two younger beings in front of him as patients and nothing more. The anger that swirled inside of him would not help him concentrate on what needed to be done. "How long since he was wounded?"

"I … don't know," Aragorn admitted, unconsciously trying to hide his right wrist from view as Elrohir once again returned his attention to him. Isál, who had stepped closer now with a bag full of healing utensils in his hands, did not miss the sudden movement, and he gave the man a long, penetrating look that Aragorn found hard to bear. "A day? Even longer, I think, it happened shortly after we … Erestor!"

Elrohir and Isál looked up immediately, and so did the two warriors who had taken up position left and right of the door, just in case Tibron decided to change his mind. Elrohir was the first to shake off his confusion, and he glanced at his brother questioningly, his worry once again beginning to grow. The man had said that Estel had suffered a concussion, hadn't he? If he was right, this just might be a sign that it was worse than they had first thought…

"What about Erestor, Estel?" the elf asked calmly.

"We saw him!" Aragorn went on, looking from Elrohir to Isál with wide grey eyes. "He is alive, Elrohir!"

Elrohir unconsciously leaned forward, his eyes boring into his human brother's.  
"Alive? Are you sure?"

"Yes!" the man nodded, only to freeze in mid-motion as sharp pain stabbed through his head. "Yes," he repeated more softly, fighting down the nausea that rose inside of him. "He is in Donrag, brother; they put us in the same cell. We spoke to him!"

For the second time in less than an hour, fierce joy blossomed in Elrohir's chest, and for a moment he had to close his eyes as a wave of pure happiness swept through him. He simply savoured the thought that he might be able to speak with his old teacher once more, and almost smiled when he realised that he would be returning to his father and Glorfindel with the best news imaginable.

Next to him, Isál smiled as well, just as relieved as his friend to hear that Lord Erestor had apparently survived the ambush, but then the joy disappeared from his face in an instant. He swallowed, apparently gathering his courage, before he raised his eyes and looked at the dark-haired ranger, apprehension, fear and hope swirling in his blue eyes.  
"Only Lord Erestor, Estel?"

Aragorn looked at him, his eyes slightly glazed either with exhaustion or pain, but a few seconds later he realised what Isál was aiming at and slowly lowered his head.  
"Only Erestor, Isál. I am sorry."

Isál merely nodded, his face once again a stony mask, and returned his eyes to the open satchel in front of him. He showed no emotion, no sadness or disappointment, but Elrohir could see the other's hands shake as he slowly and methodically unpacked the bag and placed the healing utensils on the small stool Giras had vacated.

Even though Elrohir would have liked to say or do something – and be it only put a hand on his shoulder – he did nothing, knowing that Isál wouldn't appreciate it right now. With an inward sigh and the solemn promise that he would kill the ones who had killed Elvynd and the others and done all this to his little brother and friend, Elrohir took a deep breath and turned back to Aragorn.

"We will talk about it later." Seeing that the young man was about to protest, he raised a hand. "Later, Estel. There is no way we can leave this town without attracting any attention, not before nightfall at least. An hour or two will not change anything. We need to see to your wounds first; they have gone untended for too long."

"Legolas' wounds, you mean," Aragorn retorted stubbornly. "I can wait."

"No, you cannot," Elrohir shook his head with a small smile. "I will clean his cut as soon as we have some water and more bandages. Let me have a look at that wrist you're hiding."

Aragorn closed his eyes, too tired and weary to argue with his brother. After a moment he lifted his arm and let Elrohir inspect the damaged appendage, trying to ignore the pain that flared up inside of it at the slight movement.

Elrohir carefully took the young man's hand between his own, knowing that, no matter how gentle he was, he would still cause him pain. The question why he hadn't let the Giras take care of his wrist died on his lips as he surveyed the hand more closely. He would most likely have done the same; everybody knew that human healers very seldom went to the trouble of trying to actually heal such wounds. Amputation was quicker and easier, and, considering the human healers' treatments and methods, more often than not actually offered the patient a better chance of survival.

"The 'Fox' did this, I assume?" he asked with a calmness he most certainly did not feel.

Aragorn simply nodded, his lips pressed tightly together as the elf's long fingers began to move over the swollen appendage and his face turning whiter and whiter with every heartbeat. After several long moments Elrohir looked up, his face expressionless and his eyes hard.

"He broke your forefinger and your middle finger in the process," he said in a cool tone of voice that just barely masked the anger and hatred that swirled beneath the surface. "I will have to set them, Estel." 

Aragorn smiled painfully and opened eyes he hadn't realised he'd closed. He knew what Elrohir was not saying, namely that, no matter what the elf did, the bones might never knit properly, considering how much time had elapsed since the injury had occurred.  
"If you … say … 'It will hurt', I will … hit you."

"Well," Elrohir smiled back half-heartedly. "I won't say it then, will I?"

The smile disappeared from his face as he took another look at his human brother's swollen right hand and the way two of his fingers protruded at angles that were simply _wrong_, and once again he had to force himself to breathe calmly and evenly. Aragorn and Legolas needed his help, and flying into a fit of fury would help neither of them.

He took a deep breath and then another, and finally turned to Isál who had emptied the small satchel and was watching them with strangely empty eyes. He didn't have to say anything, and without being told Isál stood to his feet and rounded the bed. He reached Aragorn's other side and with one hand carefully but very firmly grasped his injured arm at the elbow. His other arm pinned the man to the bed in a way he would have found hard to shake off even at full strength.

Aragorn looked from one of them to the other, apprehension and even a little fear mixing with the pain and exhaustion in his eyes. Every light touch hurt like a firebrand that was being pressed against his skin, and the pain was beginning to build up like a great, staggering wave that was threatening to overwhelm his senses. Isál gave the white-faced young ranger a quick look, pushed aside all the dark thoughts that were clouding his mind and heart and did his best to smile encouragingly as Elrohir took hold of the man's wrist, preparing to force the bones back into their original position.

The elf knew as well as everyone else in the room that a friendly smile was a weak comfort at best, and so the choked scream that echoed through the hallway didn't really surprise anyone.   
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Elrond took a deep breath of the cold air and did his best to push his guilty feelings aside. No one knew he was here, not even Glorfindel or his son, and he intended to keep it that way. If he was lucky, they would be too busy with setting up the camp to notice that he was gone, and would need some time to locate him in the darkness.

It wasn't that he wanted to cause either of them any grief; Valar, no, anything but that. Both of them had enough troubles already, and he would never add to them if he had any choice.

There was, however, a limit to everything, even to his patience and longanimity. For the past few days, he hadn't had one minute to himself. He had always been busy, busy with organising everything and not going out of his mind, and, quite frankly, was now beginning to think that he would simply explode if he didn't have some solitude.

The dark-haired elf smiled darkly. He wasn't speaking figuratively, no. He would explode, like one of Mithrandir's firecrackers. It wouldn't be a nice sight, about that he was rather sure, and he was therefore doing his best to avoid it. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to Glorfindel. His friend had already more than enough to worry about; the last thing he needed would be having to clean up the scattered remains of his lord and friend. 

The small part of him that was still calm and detached noticed that he was very close to rambling, and with a soft sigh Elrond closed his eyes and leaned back against the large oak tree at his back. Only a lifetime of experience and self-restraint stopped him from beating his head against the bark, and yet there was nothing Elrond would have liked better at the moment. It would be immature and very childish, surely, but it would also take his mind off his current situation.

Even though he did his best to simply concentrate on the view he had from the small hill he was standing on, he couldn't stop his thoughts from returning to his best friend and the question just where his sons were at the moment – if they were in fact alive. That train of thought did little to calm him down, but the half-elf pushed it aside resolutely. They were alive, all of them, they _had _to be alive. He wouldn't allow himself to think differently, or he would go start raving mad – if he hadn't already, that was. 

Elladan, though, was most certainly only one step away from that dark abyss, if he hadn't lost contact with the ground already. His son had become quite adept at hiding his feelings even from those who knew him well, but Elladan would never be able to hide anything from him. He could read him – and his siblings – as well as an open book, and Elrond didn't even have to look too closely to know that his eldest was close to losing his patience and composure. 

He couldn't even blame him, Elrond thought with a bitter smile. He was – or rather had been – a twin himself, and knew only too well how Elladan would be feeling right now. The bond between his sons was strong, just like the one between Elros and him had been, and he knew that Elladan would be only one step away from going out of his mind with worry.

It was strange, he thought absent-mindedly. One would think that the bond would make it easier – Elladan knew that Elrohir was alive, after all, wasn't that enough? He hadn't needed to ask his son if his brother still lived, because he knew from personal, very painful experience that they would all know if Elrohir had died. Elladan was nervous, anxious and quite insufferable at the moment, yes, but he was _himself_. If Elrohir had died, if the bond had suddenly been cut, they would all know.

The bond was in fact not enough, nor did it make it anything easier, even though he had never quite been able to explain it to others. When Elros had still been alive, he had always sensed him at the back of his mind, like a faint, humming sound that was quite impossible to explain. In times of danger, however, it had never been enough, and the knowledge that he only knew that his brother was alive and not how and where he was had always been enough to nearly drive him insane with worry and fear.

Elrond shivered suddenly, something that had nothing to do with the cold night air his half-elven body felt more keenly than a normal elf's would have. He could still remember the day of the Great Battle, the battle that had ended the First Age and had destroyed the world of their childhood. None of them had expected to survive that last, great struggle, and he still vividly remembered the all-consuming desperation that had filled him then, when he had thought their positions overrun and their cause lost, before his father and the Host of Valinor had come to their aid and driven back the minions of Morgoth. The thing he remembered best of all, however, even better than his awe and joy upon seeing the forces of the Ainur and his father's ship in the sky, was the complete and utter fear that had filled him the entire time, the fear that he would lose Elros and never see him again on this side of the Sea.

The half-elf's bitter smile became even darker. They had won the battle, yes, and the Curse of the Noldor had been lifted that day, but it hadn't changed anything. In its aftermath Elros had chosen to be counted among the _Edain_, and all he had feared and dreaded had come to pass. He had lost his twin more completely than – he hoped – one of his sons could ever lose the other, and more than once he had asked himself what his choice would be now, after all he had seen and done these past few millennia. Sometimes, especially on days such as this one, he was almost sure that he wouldn't make the same choice again.

"Here you are," a soft voice to his left commented, sounding none too surprised. "Still drawn to high places, aren't you?"

"One of the few habits I have kept from my childhood," Elrond answered, without even turning to see who had just found him. Even if he hadn't recognised the voice, it wouldn't have been too hard to guess. "There is no mast I could climb, so the hill must do."

"A mast?" the golden-haired elf who had stepped next to him asked.

"My father would take Elros and me sailing when he was at home," Elrond explained with a small, fond smile. "We always challenged each other which one of us could climb the mast the fastest."

"And?" Glorfindel prompted. "Who could climb it the fastest?" 

"Elros," the half-elf admitted, sadness and amusement tingeing his voice. "I always told him that he must have inherited all our Sindarin blood; he could always climb far better than me. I always thought it ironic, considering…"

Elrond trailed off, shaking his head softly and cursing himself for his lack of self-control. He was a wonderful lord, wasn't he, walloping in self-pity when his children and friends needed him…

"You shouldn't have come here," he finally said to break the uncomfortable silence. "Haven't I told you to take it easy and avoid all strenuous activity?"

"Aye, you have," Glorfindel nodded, rather unimpressed. "But I would hardly call the walk up here strenuous."

"You are no healer either," Elrond retorted, but there was no real anger or even displeasure in his voice.

"No, I'm not," the other elf agreed. "A healer I may not be, but I happen to be very old and wise. I know that, sometimes, that what you think you want is in fact the last thing you need."

"Old and wise, indeed," the dark-haired elf said with a small, slightly forced smile. "And prone to talking in riddles."

"Let me be blunt, then," Glorfindel retorted, looking at his friend evenly. "Don't do this, Elrond. Don't withdraw into yourself, don't lose yourself in dark memories. We will reach Aberon tomorrow evening, if nothing goes wrong, and we will need you then."

"Very amusing, _mellon nín_," Elrond commented softly. "'If nothing goes wrong.' Have you become the greatest optimist who ever lived or are you mocking me?"

"I would never mock you about something like this, Elrond," the other elf shook his head sharply. "Never. You know that, do you not?" 

"Yes," Elrond admitted. "Yes, I do know that. Forgive me my less than courteous words."

"Always," Glorfindel smiled at the younger elf. "Don't torture yourself like this, my friend. Your sons live, and so does the prince, I'm sure. Don't you think you knew if they did not?"

"Yes," Elrond began hesitantly, "I think I would. I know, in a way, that Elrohir is alive, just as I know that Arwen in safe and well in Lórien."

"But you do not know if Aragorn lives," Glorfindel finished his friend's unvoiced thought. "Or the prince, or Isál, or the rest of the warriors."

The dark-haired elf lowered his head and sighed, once again deciding that Glorfindel knew him far too well. Most of the time, it was reassuring, but sometimes it was just the opposite.

"Estel is my son in every way that is important," he said softly, almost as if he was speaking to himself. "In my heart, I do not make a difference between him and the twins, and you know that I love him like the children Celebrían has borne me. But," he sighed once more and turned slightly, avoiding his friend's intense gaze, "no matter what I feel and think, he is _not _my son. He is Arathorn's, and no matter how close we are, we will never have the kind of link elven parents have with their children. Fact is that I do not know if he is all right. He could be in agony, he could be _dead_, and I wouldn't know."

"I know what you feel like," the golden-haired elf replied after several long moments. "Valar forbid that Erestor ever finds out that I have compared him to your son, but I know what you feel like, my lord." 

"I think," Elrond began, turning back to his fair-haired friend, "that he would be touched. He would never admit it, of course, but he would be touched."

"Are we talking about the same elf here?" Glorfindel asked wryly, doing his best to hide the fear and anxiety that once again threatened to escape the small corner of his mind into which he had pushed them. "If my memory does not fail me, I believe that he was the one who almost made Gaerîn cry – only by looking at her, mind you, which makes it all the more impressive."

"I believe those were tears of anger," Elrond commented thoughtfully.

"They may have been," the other elf admitted. "But that, too, is hard to accomplish. Trust me, I know better than most."

"You could say that."

Glorfindel only smiled as he leaned against the tree at his back to take some weight off his still healing ankles. Even though he wouldn't admit it to Elrond, his ankles were hurting, and climbing up here had done little to alleviate the ever-present pain.  
"I should have known," he finally said quietly. "I should have stopped him."

"How, my friend?" Elrond shook his head sadly. "How should you have known, how _could _you have known? You are neither Manwë nor Námo nor Eru himself. Very old and wise you may be, but you are not omniscient." 

"No," the older elf admitted. "I am no Ainu, and I am most certainly not the One." He paused, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly, as if he was inwardly debating something. "But tell me, Elrond," he began, "how you think I managed to fall down that hillside?"

The half-elf frowned, clearly taken by surprise, but after a moment of hesitation or surprise he opened his mouth to answer.  
"I will admit that I have asked myself that as well. It is unlike you to lose your balance."

"Yes, it is," Glorfindel retorted with a small mirthless smile. "I do not _lose my balance _– under normal circumstances, that is. You ask how I should have known? I cannot answer that question, at least not in a way that would satisfy you, but I … well, I just knew. Or I suspected that something was wrong, at least, ever since Erestor and the others had left. Every day they were gone that suspicion grew stronger and more distracting, and on the day that messenger arrived it became so bad that…"

The elf trailed off, apparently not willing to talk about what exactly had happened. Elrond would almost have smiled. If there was one thing one could count on in this world, it was Glorfindel's stubborn pride. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked instead. "You know that my door is always open."

"I didn't believe it myself," Glorfindel shrugged quickly, but there was a dark, bitter undertone in his voice. "I thought I was seeing shadows where there were none. I thought my worry was making me imagine things that didn't exist." The golden-haired elf tilted his head to the side, unconsciously grinding his teeth. "I was a fool. A stupid fool who has lived far too long to make such mistakes, a fool whose men have paid for his idiocy with their lives."

"Do not say such things," Elrond begged quietly. He may have been more than willing to take all the blame he could get his hands on onto his own shoulder, but that didn't mean that he would sit idly by while his best friend did the same. "No one can tell how everything would have turned out if things had been different, no one but the Valar and Ilúvatar himself. Yes, it might have changed something – but it also might have made everything even worse. You do not know what would have happened had you acted differently. You did what you could, knowing what you did. No one here or in Imladris thinks differently."

"He is no warrior, Elrond," Glorfindel shook his head as if he hadn't heard the other's words. "He is stubborn like a mule, yes, but he is no warrior. What if Elvynd was right and the Lord of Donrag captured him instead of having him killed on the spot? What if they did it to learn something from him?"

Elrond didn't answer immediately, a sudden shiver racing through his very core. This particular question was one he had studiously avoided until now, even though it had ever loomed at the back of his mind.   
"I do not know," he finally confessed softly. "Elbereth be my witness, I do not know what then. I hope that that is the case, and yet I wish it isn't."

"He should have listened to me and stayed in Rivendell," Glorfindel closed his eyes once again. "I know that he would rather eat his favourite quill than actually listen to me, but this once he should have done so. It is my duty to ensure your realm's safety and face our enemies, not his." 

"Such things happen," Elrond shook his head helplessly. "Things never turn out the way they were supposed to, that I have learnt a long time ago. You couldn't have known what would happen any more than he, Glorfindel. Do not torment yourself so, my friend. You must concentrate on reaching Donrag and freeing him, if he still lives."

"Yes," the fair-haired elf nodded slowly, his golden hair gleaming slightly in the sparse moonlight. "If he still lives, Elrond. Sometimes, though, death is preferable to living with the after-effects to what has been done to you. You have been in enough wars to know that I speak the truth."

Elrond stared at the dark, peaceful scenery in front of him, forcing himself not to think of Celebrían, his beloved wife, and the horrible things that had been done to her and which had driven her away from him. Glorfindel was right, of course; he had seen enough warriors in the aftermath of captivity and torture to know that, sometimes, death was by far the kinder fate. 

"Yes," he finally admitted. "Sometimes that is the case. But there is one thing I know for certain: That Erestor is the single most stubborn and single-minded person I have ever met. He will know that we will be coming for him. He will know that he must only hang on long enough for us to reach him. He will wait for us."

"I hope so, my friend," the golden-haired elf muttered next to him. "By all the stars above, I hope so. Only one day longer, at least." 

"One day longer," the younger elf nodded his head. "Do not give in to hopelessness and fear, my friend. We will make it in time. Do not allow this wave to sweep you away."

Glorfindel didn't say anything for a while, but then he turned to look at him, looking rather sheepish and thankful at the same time.  
"Here I came to comfort you and you have comforted me instead," he shook his head slightly with a small smile. "How do you do it?" 

"Experience," Elrond simply retorted with a shrug. "And, as you have told me before, the inability to back down when I think myself to be right."

"You are your father's son," Glorfindel shrugged as well. "And Tuor's grandson. Where there should be a brain, your family has solid bone." 

Elrond smiled good-naturedly, some of his anxiety beginning to fade and leaving only a faint, dull ache in its wake. He didn't know how his friend did it, but he seemed to be able to calm him every time he felt like jumping off something very high.  
"You just might be right about that, _mellon nín_. And I am beginning to suspect that it is only growing worse in my brother's descendants."

Glorfindel smiled as well as he spread his hands.  
"I wish I could disagree with you, my lord, but…"

Elrond shook his head silently, apparently contemplating the recklessness of his sons in general and Aragorn in particular, and for a moment it was quiet on top of the small hill. The sounds of their camp drifted up to them, no more than bits of solemn conversation that would have been inaudible to any other the younger races, and Elrond wondered quietly when had been the last time that he had gone somewhere with this quiet and serious a company. An answer almost immediately presented itself to him, together with dark memories he did not want to remember, and so the half-elf pushed them aside, once again cursing himself for not controlling his train of thought.

The darkness slowly grew and intensified as the night progressed, and finally Glorfindel spoke again, his blue eyes dark and unreadable in the gloom.  
"He will know we are coming. He _will _hang on." 

"Yes, _mellon nín_," Elrond agreed. "He will." 

Glorfindel only nodded, as if his friend's words had somehow lent his hopeful declarations some credibility or truth. Both of them fell silent again, lost in their own thoughts and yet comforted by each other's presence.

Neither of them spoke about the fact that, no matter what happened, they might still be too late, almost as if the possibility would disappear if they refused to acknowledge it. It was a small, weak hope, but in times like these, one tended to take what hope one could get.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend  
Egleriar no aen i eneth Eru Ilúvatar. Cuinach - Praised be Eru Ilúvatar's name. You are alive.  
Cuinon, muindor - I am alive, brother.  
Sedho. Men cuin a berian aen - Be calm. We (are) alive and safe.  
muindor nín - my brother  
Edain - Humans, Men_

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•frowns• Legolas was meant to wake up at the end of this chapter, but he didn't want to. I wonder why? •evil grin• Ah well, there's still next time. Other than that, Elrohir, Isál, Aragorn and Legolas are going to have a serious discussion, and 3/4 of them also come up with an incredibly reckless, stupid plan. You may guess who. •g• So, even despite FF-net's insane little rules: Review? Please?

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**Additional A/N:**

Deana - •winces• Well, I hope you haven't died by now. I'm really sorry for keeping your guys waiting. Honestly. •nods seriously• It's great to hear that you still like this insane little story! •huggles•  
**Insane Pirate** - Ah yes, I can relate to that. I'm a little busy myself right now... Don't worry about the reviews. I totally understand. And Happy (belated) Birthday! I hope yours was as nice as mine  
**KLMeri** - Hmm ... I •could• let Elrohir and Isál let our intrepid duo find without incident... •thinks• Ah well, okay then. My alter ego will be none-too-pleased, but hey. She's a part of me, so she shouldn't complain. She does, mind you, but... •g• And it wasn't a real cliffy. Nope. Neither is this one, btw. •g•  
**Ainu Laire** - LOL, I would almost not have recognised you in that dress! •g• Very convincing - I'm sure the Mary-Sues will be fooled... Poor Staff Elf, though. If he goes into that School dressed like Legolas in RotK ... •shudders• I don't think I can describe it here, this is PG-13 after all. •g• I'm glad you liked this chapter. Aragorn's behaviour was indeed understandable. Slightly paranoid, but understandable. •g•  
**Queen of Flarmphgal** - Well, yes, if there is one thing I'm sure they've learnt by now, it's that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. •g• Oh yes, it can. •even more evil grin• So yes, we will have some "fun" later. •really evil grin•.  
**Elowen Elrondion** - Ah ... well ... thank you! •g• It's great to hear that you like my stories so much. It's slightly disconcerting, considering that it's insane, but still... •g• I'm sorry for not updating for so long - I didn't do it on purpose. My alter ego might have, but that's another story. •g•  
**Harry Estel** - •g• Sure you're not that cross. •eyes dagger nervously• Sure. •g• LOL, I think "Poor Estel/Erestor" is rather accurate. But who says they'll end up in a nice hospital bed? I never did! Mhahahaha! •evil laugh•  
**Alilacia** - AH! •faints - see, I haven't updated because I passed out, so it's your fault!• OMG, it's you! •blinks incredulously• It's really you - welcome back! •huggles• I don't need the flaying item, since I haven't updated in about three years- We're even. I guess you're right, btw. They could all use some good luck for once. My alter ego doesn't want them to have luck of any kind, but hey, she's evil. •g• •huggles again• Glad to 'see' you again! Thanks for the review!  
**LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel** - You know, I actually needed some time to remember where I'd got that one phrase. It was just one of those that stuck in my brain. Sometimes they just make a reappearance and I don't even know where I'd heard them. But you're right, I think it was that movie. It was funny, btw. Historically •completely• inaccurate, but funny. Great you liked it nonetheless. •g•  
**Dae** - •winces• I don't even want to know what I did to your summer break now. I hope I didn't ruin it completely. •sheepish smile• You are quite right, you know. Even if Tibron IS in fact one of the good guys, it doesn't mean that they're safe. Nu-uh. •grins evilly• No way. So you want someone to explain to Elrond and Glorfindel that Aragorn and Legolas died? Hmm, tough one. I'll see what I can do. •g•  
**Slayer3** - •wide-eyed• You have a "I love Aragorn and Legolas t-shirt"? And a "I love Elrohir and Elladan t-shirt"? And elven armour and a scythe? That's ... interesting. Disconcerting, but interesting. •g• They're more or less fine though, don't worry. I can't guarantee that they'll stay that way, but... •g•  
**Ali64** - •innocently• Who, me? Having planned a bout of torture? Why, you hurt me! I would •never• do something like that... Are you buying this? •Ali64 shakes head• Ah well, it was worth a try... •g• I have to agree though, Aragorn would probably be able to kill both of them, even half-dead. All that training has to be good for something, right? Corfu, eh? I'm sure you'll have lots of fun - I was in Thessaloniki myself. It's got to better than here. •gives sky evil look•  
**Crippled Raven** - Yay! (yes, I do use it too much, too, especially considering that it doesn't even exist in German •g•) I reduced another reviwer to a goo-puddle! •g• Nice flag you have there, btw - don't worry, Tibron isn't bad. Or is he? •grins evilly• Sorry, I just couldn't resist. Aha! So it was YOU who sent me that package full of plot bunnies! I just knew it! •g• I hope your exam went well - your GCSEs, wasn't it? I'm sure you did well!  
**Ilaaris** - Well, define "soon", will you? I think this is soon - then again, I don't think anyone else would agree... I wonder why? •g• Still, the next chapter's here. Finally. Thanks a lot for the review!  
**Neniel Sildurien** - •looks behind her frantically• Who told you I enjoy "elf/ranger/insert-fav-char angst and torture"? Dammit, I have been found out! •g• Ah well, you got me. It's great to hear that your sister finally wants to read a LOTR story. It's one of the best books in existence, after all. •g• As I said, Thessaloniki was great. I have come to love fried courgettes with tsatsiki (or whatever it's spelt in English). If I could just get them here... •ponders possibilites• I wonder what the Greek ambassador would say if I went to the ambassy and asked really nicely? •g• On second thought, I don't want to know. •g•  
**Golden Elf** - Well, "safe" is a subjective term, isn't it? I think this is safe - they're in a house, for a change, and no one wants to kill them right now. That's safe. It's a good question, btw, do Númenóreans have nine lives? If yes, Aragorn's are running out - fast. •g• And I'm already planning to introduce Celylith to a new pet, never fear. Should be interesting. •rubs hands•  
**SeventhSpanishAngel12** - Actually, I can see it, too. Retribution, I mean. •g• Poor Erestor is really having a bad day, I guess. Month sounds good, too, now that I think about it. Great you still like it though. •g•  
**Deep Sorrow** - They're alive, yes. More or less, that is. For now. Kind of. •grin evilly• Yes, I DO love being cryptic and evil. Who'd have thought, I know. •innocent grin• As it turned out, you had to wait a •little• while for the next chapter. Sorry about that. •sheepish smile• Still, thanks for the review!  
**Sanaryelle** - OMG, you guys are breaking out the champagne now? It has become that rare? •hangs head• Jeez, I'm sorry. You like my villains? You really do? That's interesting. I do, too, but I invented them. Then again, I didn't like Teonvan from TWIN. He became too evil and freaky even for me. •shudders slightly at memory• And, btw, I'm happy that someone finally realised that I'm not completely sadistic. Only to about 95 . •evil grin•  
**Jazmin3 Firewing** - It wasn't a cliffy. A cliffy, in my opinion, involves a life-or-death situation. This wasn't one. •g• •pauses• Ah well, whatever. Maybe I'm evil, too, who knows. Great you liked the chapter, though. Watching Aragorn scare others IS kind of funny, isn't it? •shakes head• Gosh, we're both evil.  
**Just Jordy** - You too? It •wasn't• a cliffhanger. Not a real one, anyway. I can do worse, trust me. •evil grin• You just gave me a lot of quite evil ideas... •shakes head quickly• No, I will just ignore them. Anyway, thanks a lot for all your reviews!  
**Secret Wanderings** - So you have two identities? Kind of like Batman, or Superman... •g• I know, I know, I've had WAY too much sugar today. Just ignore me. •g• It's great to hear that you liked the whole Erestor-Aragorn-mother thing. And I'll ignore the "frequent updates" thing. It makes me cry. •g•  
**Blue Dragoness** - Oh, trust me I can relate to your problems. I should be studying right now, too. Vonar and Torel did turn up before, though, Torel in the second chapter and in a few other after that and Vonar in the ... eleventh? Something like that? I just can't remember. •shrugs• I had to grin at Elrond and Glorfindel being MIA. I don't know why, but it made me laugh. •g• Thanks a lot for your long review!  
**SmilingDragonGirl** - Oh, I DO have joy reading your reviews. Trust me on this, I do. A LOT. •g• Oh, and I'm very glad you liked the whole Dangerous-Aragorn thing. I just love seeing him like that, and even though he is young and half-dead, he's still dangerous. Ah well, Legolas... He ... uhm ... doesn't want to be conscious? Yes, that's it. He doesn't want to; it's all his fault. •g• And let me know if you find a back door, I'm always trying to plug plot-holes. •g• LOL, you really kept track of who was injured when and in what way? That's disconcerting. Very much so. •g• But you're right, you know, and it wasn't an accident either. Yes, I'm keeping track, too. •g• I hope you have some nails left by now. I'm SO sorry for keeping all of you waiting. I really am. •smiles sheepishly•  
**Cosmic Castaway** - •g• If their bodies have any sense at all, they'll go on strike. Soon. Very soon. They'll just lock themselves in some padded room and stay there for a while. •g• That's what I would do, anyway. You are right, btw: Legolas WILL be angry once he wakes up. Just a bit, though. •g•  
**Zerah** - Thank you! •beams• That's a very nice thing to say. I always try to make my OCs look "real". There are just so many that are little more than cardboard cut-outs. It's sad, really. •shakes head• So, thank you, it just made my day. Thanks a lot, and thanks a lot for your review, please!  
**J-mercuryuk** - Yup, I put Erestor in the last chapter. He didn't really want to - actually, I had drag him in kicking and screaming - but I knew it would make you guys happy. •g• Elrohir will indeed be happy to see our intrepid heroes. Kind of, that is. •g• I hope your exams went well, btw, and thanks for all your reviews!  
**CrazyLOTRfan** - •grins evilly• Yup, that's essentially it. They're kind of safe. LOL, why did you have to say that? I can't get the picture of Erestor-the-living-lie-detector out of my head... •snickers• Don't worry, Erestor didn't get lost, even though I have to admit that it would be happy to have him end up in Mirkwood. Somehow I doubt that Thranduil would be very amused... •g•  
**Dreamzone** - Oh, please, don't cry. I already feel bad enough because I haven't updated for ages, and that would be the last straw. •g• Don't worry about Gasur, though. He WILL die in the end, even though I don't know how and by whose hands yet. But die he will, I promise. •evil grin• Elrond is still a bit away, though, sorrry. He'll get there in the end, but not just yet. That would be too easy. •g• Thank you very much for your kind words - and your long review, of course!  
**Madam Librarian** - •beams• Great you liked the Erestor scene! We aim to please... I think you're completely right, though: Erestor is very close to cracking right now, so I guess the cavalry should arrive soon. Glorfindel would be delighted to play that part, I'm sure. •g• I would ask him, but I'm too afrid of what he'll do to me when he hears what happened to Erestor. I'm a chicken, I know. •shrugs•  
**Marbienl** - I know what you're talking about, mate... I hope your project went well. I hate you for being on holidays, though. I would kill for some free time. •cracks knuckles meaningfully• I'm sorry, though, I really didn't get a message. GMX could be hating Hallmark, I don't really know. Either that or my Netscape Spam-filters, even though that's a bit unlikely. Anyway, thanks a lot for trying. •huggles• Hmm, the reunion between Glorfindel and Erestor ... I have no idea, to be honest. Not in the next three chapters, though, that's all I can tell you. Sorry about that. •g•  
**Galadhriel Vornionien** - •g• Thanks for your kind reminder. I will endeavour to keep Isál alive - I am not responsible for his own foolish attempts to get himself killed. That's his own fault. •g• Anway, sorry for keeping you waiting. It was my alter ego's fault, really.  
**Sarah** - Seit deiner Review renne ich mit einer Papiertuete ueber dem Kopf 'rum. Ich bin ein Feigling, habe nur zwei Semester Taekwon-Do Erfahrung und will keine Haue bekommen... •g• Am Urlaub lag's auch gar nicht - eher an der fiesen Hausarbeit, die nicht fertig werden wollte. Dann war sie fertig, mein Computer wollte nicht, wie ich wollte, der Scanner in der Uni war kaputt, mein Drucker/Scanner wollte ueberhaupt nicht, und sie war noch zwei Seiten zu lang. Jetzt ist sie aber weg, Gott sei Dank! •g• Dein "look" war sehr beeindruckend, und ich werd' alle Antworten dieses Wochenende 'runternehmen. Wie du sagst, sicher ist sicher.  
**Scorn** - •blushes• Well - thank you? It's great to hear that you enjoyed my insane little stories. If you can actually read them more than once, all the better. •g• I'm sorry you are now stuck with my less than regular posting schedule - it might have been better to start reading this later. The way things are going right now, quite a bit later. •g• Thank you very much for your review!  
**UniCornVampire3z** - •blinks• O-kay then, rain is not monotonous. Whatever you say. You like rain, huh? •g• Even though I have to admit that I have never connected the words "rain" and "graceful" before... I have to admit that I don't really like rain all that much. Only in the summer, then it can be nice. •g•

**So, here's the last lot. Ever. Gosh, I hate FF-net. •grr• Anyway, thanks a lot for all your reviews. They DID help me, and without them I wouldn't be updating right now. Honestly. •g• **


	29. To Make a Plan

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
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****A/N:**

Okay. Hmmm. Let me see. Well... •finally shrugs• I won't even try to come up with a suitable excuse. I had exams, papers, more exams and finally went on an unexpected four-day-visit which I had to pay a friend who was having a good-bye party (one of those "What are you doing this weekend?" - "Uhm ... nothing?" - "Great, then you'll come to my party. It's Friday evening, bring a bottle of ... something and try not to scare the others this time" - things). It was actually a very nice party, even though about 85 percent of the people there studied medicine and I had this horrible vision of me waking up the next morning with a couple of IVs in my arm. •g• Never trust a drunken med student.

Anyway, I have my last exam in a week, so I can't promise that it won't happen again. Since I'll be leaving for Spain in six weeks, though, I am trying to finish this story before then. I simply don't know what will happen then, but I doubt that I'll have much time to spare in the first few weeks. And keeping you waiting for that long would be cruel and unusual. Hmm, my alter ego likes that idea...

All right, enough gloom and doom, here's the next bit, in which Legolas finally wakes up. I know, I know, took long enough, too. He can be stubborn, that one. What else do we have ... oh yes, our intrepid heroes make plans which, as always, sound like a very, very bad idea, Tibron realises that he's really in quite a bit of trouble with a lot of people and Legolas and Elrohir make a decision Aragorn doesn't like in the slightest. •g•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 29   
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**A sound interrupted the peaceful silence he was floating in, causing him to breathe a soundless sigh of annoyance. For a moment or two he occupied himself with trying to figure out what that sound could have been, but then he dismissed the question as unimportant and not nearly worth the trouble.

The damage was done, however, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't return to that soothing, all-consuming darkness that had surrounded him until now. The part of him that was apparently charged with his health and well-being was particularly annoyed at that and voiced its displeasure in no uncertain terms, even though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

There were quite a lot of things he couldn't figure out, though, among them who and where he was and what he might be doing here, so it didn't alarm him overly much. Annoy him it did, though, and even though he didn't really know who he was, he could already tell that he didn't like being annoyed.

Legolas didn't know how much time had passed since he had first noticed the sound that had ripped him out of his comfortable, painless nothingness (and, if he was completely honest, he didn't really care either), even though he suspected that it had been at least a year, if not more. Before he could think about it any longer, something else joined the strange noise: Pain. It wasn't the worst pain he had ever been in – that was at least what a soft voice whispered in his ear – but it was a rather close second.

Tightly closed eyes were screwed shut even further as the pain began to grow as awareness increased, and he caught himself wishing that he'd never heard that accursed noise in the first place. Wishing didn't change anything, thought, and so he found himself drifting closer and closer to full consciousness. In the end, he stopped fighting the process with a weary sigh and an unspoken curse even though he didn't try to open his eyes. A part of him that was apparently quite used to such situations was telling him calmly that he wouldn't be able to convince his eyes to open anyway, and besides, it would be a stupid idea. You never knew who was waiting for you to regain consciousness, after all.

That didn't make much sense, and Legolas frowned inwardly as he tried to figure out what that part of him had meant. Who could be waiting for him to regain consciousness, or rather, who could be waiting for him to regain consciousness that he wouldn't want to inform of that fact?

He had barely asked himself that question when that certain part of him gave a decidedly cynical laugh and departed into the deeper recesses of his mind, leaving him even more confused than he'd been before. Just when he had reluctantly come to the conclusion that at least a part – if not all – of him was apparently mad or at least having a seriously bad day, the sound that had awoken him became clearer – much clearer.

It was not unlike surfacing in a still pond after having taken a dive, he mused thoughtfully; the sounds of your surroundings increased with every inch you ascended. All of the sudden the picture of a small, crystal-clear lake appeared in his mind's eye, causing him to wonder wherefrom it had just appeared. The waters were clear and dark blue, and the sunlight that filtered through the branches of the surrounding trees caused the still surface to sparkle like polished silver. There was a flittering memory of light and laughter accompanying the picture, almost like a faint melody one could sense rather than hear, even though he had not the slightest idea where the lake could be or even if he had ever been there – or, in fact, with whom he might laughed there.

In retrospect, it was this single memory more than anything else that prompted the elf to shake off his prior lethargy and try to reach the surface of his own, private little pond whose leaden, unyielding waters were preventing him from returning to consciousness. Not remembering what was going on was nice, surely, and remaining care- and pain-free was even nicer, but there were some things that were far more important. Things like remembering who he was and who and what he cared for – and also the memory of who the shadowy person was who was tied to such memories. If remembering meant that he had to endure the full level of pain his body was in or even the wrath of some unknown person who might be waiting for him to wake up, then so be it. 

Despite his determination, Legolas didn't make much headway for a while. He might as well have tried to stab a troll with a hairpin; his mind was still too sluggish and too concentrated on dealing with the pain that seemed to fill his entire body to pay his insistent commands to wake up any heed. In the end, he fought his way towards consciousness, an achievement that was only to be attributed to his stubbornness and sheer mulishness. He may have no idea what was going on here, but he would be damned if he allowed his body to tell him what to do.

Just when he was convinced that the simple process of waking up and opening his eyes would take at least another year or so, the indistinct sound turned into something else. He actually needed some time to identify it, and only after using almost all of the concentration he could gather did he manage to find out what it was: Voices, voices that didn't sound overly happy about something. Or someone, now that he thought about it.

In fact, one of them sounded quite a lot as if it wanted to tear the other limb from limb – granted that the voices did have limbs, that was.

"… definitely not! No!"

"If you have a better idea, please share it with us, brother."

"Of course I have a better idea! Anybody and anything more intelligent than a snail would have a better idea!"

"Snails are rather intelligent, you know."

The other voice didn't answer, but there was a sharp intake of breath that spoke volumes. For a few seconds it was silent, but then a third voice could be heard, sounding torn between frustration, amusement and even a little fear.  
"Please, my lords, this will solve nothing. Estel, sit back, and you, my lord, please calm down. The humans will come to investigate if you two aren't quieter."

Legolas still couldn't manage more than a faint, almost undetectable fluttering of his eyelids, but he did have a vague idea to whom the two voices might belong. Cloudy images, faces and memories were hovering just beyond his reach, but he was already certain that he knew only a handful of people who would be able to make someone else sound like this.

"You are right, Isál," the first voice announced after a few more moments, rather grudgingly one might add. There was a short pause, before it went on, "_He _is, Estel, not you. _You _are mad, totally mad."

"So I've been told."

The answer was short, to the point and spoken in a thoroughly unrepentant tone of voice. Strangely enough, it was enough to prompt Legolas' memory to return to him, something that would later be a great source of amusement for all of them. If the blond elf's eyes had been open, he would have closed them against the sudden flood of images that flittered through his head, but it took him only a second or two to remember who he was, to whom he was listening right now and, more importantly, how he had got here.

Worry and fear gave him enough strength to push his lingering weakness aside, and he struggled to open his eyes with renewed urgency. This time, he almost managed to open them, and the short fluttering of his eyelids was enough to attract the attention of the other beings who were with him. 

"My lords!"

"I am not going to strangle him, Isál, calm down. Even though I have to admit that I am sorely tempted to give it a try."

"You could have fooled me, brother."

"Believe me, Estel, if you don't stop this nonsense right now and see reason I will do something that…" 

"_My lords_!" That was Isál's voice again, and even Legolas noticed that the dark-haired elven captain sounded very much as if he had reached the ends of his patience. "Will you please _be quiet _for a second?" A stunned silence followed, and Isál added, still sounding annoyed, "It's the prince! He's waking up, I'm sure about it!"

If Legolas' eyes had been open, he would have been greatly amused by the reaction these words prompted. The two beings in question stopped glaring at each other from one second to the next and turned towards the fair-haired elf's bed, almost as if expecting him to get up and walk away. Elrohir prevented his human brother from doing just that since the man was rather intent on reaching his friend's side, and unceremoniously pressed him back into his pillows. Ignoring the human's dark look with the ease that only long practice brought, he scooted closer to the elven prince's bed, his eyes fixed on his pale, bruised face.

"Legolas? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes, _ mellon nín_?"

The rational part of the fair-haired elf that was gaining strength with each second only shook its head, annoyed. Just what did that stupid Noldo think he was trying to do?

Before he could try and say something along these lines, the twin spoke again. The annoyance that had tinged his voice only a few seconds ago had disappeared and had been replaced with open worry.  
"Legolas? Come now, you stubborn wood-elf, can you hear me?" 

That did it. Legolas put up with being called many things, but being called stubborn by a son of Elrond was intolerable.

"Of course I can hear you," he informed the other elf hoarsely, his voice soft and rough and almost inaudible. He made a last attempt to open his eyes, and, to his substantial surprise, even managed to do so with only minimal trouble. If he'd thought it to be a good idea, he would have laughed with joy. He'd shown his body, hadn't he? "How … could I not? You two make enough noise to wake a hibernating oliphaunt."

"Oliphaunts do not hibernate," Aragorn informed him, leaning over the side of his bed as far as his protesting body and Elrohir's warning glare would allow him. The humourous tone of voice masked neither the concern nor the relief in his voice. 

"Yes, they do."

"No, they do not."

"Yes, they do."

"No, they do…"

"How would you know?" Legolas interrupted him, turning his head slightly to give the younger being a haughty look. In his present condition, it looked rather like the look a half-dead rat would give a three-quarter-dead rat because it thought its tail looked springier. "You have never seen one."

"Neither have you." A wicked glint crept into the man's eyes as he added, "Unless you had a stuffed toy oliphaunt as a child."

Before this conversation could go down the very predictable path of mayhem and bloodshed, Elrohir shot his younger brother a _look _full of dark promises and gently grasped the other elf's chin, carefully turning his head back around.  
"What my charming brother is meaning to say is 'Welcome back', I believe."

The same relief he had been hearing in Aragorn's voice was plainly visible on the slightly older elf's face, and Legolas gave him a small smile.  
"Where did I go?"

Elrohir answered that question with a wry grin of his own as he released the other's chin and sat back slightly, eyeing the prince in a manner with which the other was rather familiar: The twin either wanted to sell him to a slave trader or was under the impression that he was Lord Elrond or Hithrawyn and therefore responsible for his welfare. 

"Are you in pain?"

Legolas actually thought about the question for a second – not that he would have needed to, mind you. The dull, throbbing pain that pulsed through his very core with every heartbeat would have been hard too miss even for an intoxicated troll.   
"Not all of me," he finally said, judging this to be an acceptable compromise.

Elrohir exchanged a wry look with his human brother as he took an earthen cup with water from Isál and helped the fair-haired elf to sit up.  
"What part of you isn't, then?"

"Let me think," Legolas answered with a small frown after he had drunken some of the cool liquid that almost immediately alleviated some of the headache that was raging behind his forehead. "My left heel. My right eyebrow, strange as that may sound. My right forefinger, a strand of hair just left of my right ear and approximately one inch by two inches of skin left of my navel. Yes, that should be about it."

Try as he might, Elrohir couldn't suppress the smile that spread over his face. He could understand why most healers hated the two of them.  
"You're almost hale, then," he announced cheerfully, putting the half-empty cup down onto the small wooden stool that was standing between the two beds. "You were lucky, my friend, very lucky. That cut to your side was a nasty one, but I don't think I have to tell you that. Another inch to the left, and…"

"I know," Legolas nodded without hesitation. "Trust me, I know." He closed his eyes and leaned back into his pillows as the sudden movement caused his headache to spike once more. "The Valar hate us, I swear they do. I just don't understand why they can't stand _me_. I'm not even a Noldo."

Ignoring the two dark-haired elves' mumbled words that sounded quite a lot like "arrogant Sinda", Aragorn inconspicuously moved even further to the left, almost hanging out of his bed by now. If Elrohir noticed what he was doing, he was ignoring it for once.  
"I think you are right, _mellon nín_," he told the blond elf in a long-suffering tone of voice. "If there is anything we can do without getting ourselves almost killed, I have not found it yet."

Legolas nodded glumly, this time more slowly. He didn't open his eyes, though, not just yet. Even despite his closed eyelids he could feel the room spin around him, and he was certain that he would have been sick if he had eaten anything in the past few days.  
"They want to kill us," he agreed. "I just wish they would just do it and get it over with."

"Don't say something like that," Elrohir admonished him. "They might view it as a kind of challenge. Which, strangely enough, reminds me of something." He leaned forward again, checking the other elf's bandages. "Whatever possessed you to jump into the Mitheithel?"

For the second time in less than a quarter-hour, Legolas found himself opening his eyes in outrage. For a second, his wide-open eyes made him look ridiculously like a disgruntled fawn.

"I?" he asked incredulously. "_I_? Trust me when I tell you that I did not _jump_!" He turned his head and raised a slightly shaking hand, using it to point at his human friend in the bed next to his who had at least the good grace to look faintly embarrassed. "Do you want to know what happened, son of Elrond? That madman you call your brother _pushed _me!"

Elrohir rolled his eyes, grasped the other elf's hand and pressed it back down before he could take someone's eye out by waving his fingers around like this. Giving Legolas a stern look, he turned and gave his human brother a similar glare. The man who had, after all, grown up in the House of Elrond didn't even pretend to look impressed by his _look_. Elrohir couldn't really decide whether he should feel affronted because of it or not.

"Did you really push him, brother?"

Aragorn decided to ignore the tired, thoroughly unsurprised undertone in the elf's voice.  
"I didn't really have a choice; it was either that or be recaptured. I chose the lesser of two evils. I did not intend to allow ourselves to be taken again."

"And for that I thank you, Aragorn," Legolas inclined his head minutely, not having missed the slightly guilty undertone in the other's voice. "I spoke in jest. You did the right thing, and had I been in a more … lucid … state of mind, I would have done just the same and pushed _you_."

"Why, thank you, _mellon nín_."

Elrohir exchanged an annoyed look with Isál – or he tried to. It wasn't entirely successful, since the young captain in question was right now backing away and trying to make his way over to the door. Whether it was because he wanted to get an axe with which he would be able to shut the two of them up or because he simply wanted to flee, the twin did not know, but he was having none of it and pointed at the chair he had just vacated.

If he was stuck here and had to endure Aragorn's and Legolas' unique way of dealing with stress and overcoming the relief they undoubtedly felt, Isál would have to bear it, too. The dark-haired captain reluctantly sat back down, shooting Elrohir a glare that suddenly caused the other elf to be glad that Isál harboured such great respect for his father.

Ignoring the two younger beings' bickering, Elrohir finished inspecting Legolas' various wounds, redid the bandages and sat back again. A second later the two of them realised that he was finished, interrupted their conversation from one moment to the next and turned to look at him. The worry both of them were trying to hide beneath masks of indifference was rather plain to see, and once again Elrohir was struck by how alike these two could look.

"You will live," he finally declared, smiling at them in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "Both of you. If you rest and refrain from getting yourselves into any more of your 'situations' for a few days, that is."

Legolas accepted his verdict with a minute nod, but couldn't refrain from voicing his doubts. The last time he had been awake, Aragorn had been barely able to stand and had been shivering from head to toe like a leaf in the wind. He was no healer, no, but he was rather sure that jumping into an ice-cold river after having sustained various injuries was not something a human should be doing, especially not if he intended to drag his equally half-dead friend halfway across Eriador.

"What about that idiot brother of yours?" he asked, ignoring the darkly muttering man. "Are you sure he didn't contract one of his human illnesses?"

"They are not _my _illnesses!"

"No, I am not sure," Elrohir admitted seriously. "He claims to be fine, though."

"And you believe him?" Legolas asked incredulously. "How long have you known him now? Twenty-one years? And how many times during these twenty-one years has he actually been all right when he claimed to be 'fine'?" 

"Not very often, I'll admit that," Elrohir agreed thoughtfully. "Maybe you are right. I could ask Master Tibron if his wife has any herbal remedies for colds."

"I am right here!" Aragorn announced darkly, shooting both of them rather murderous looks. "It is rude to talk about me as if I were a child or a mindless object! And besides, I do – not – have – a – cold!"

The sentence's effect was ruined by the sudden, hacking cough he couldn't suppress, and Elrohir and Legolas merely smiled at each other in a patronising, condescending way that clearly stated that they would ignore the little one's latest outburst. Aragorn's eyes narrowed even further as he tried to get his breathing under control. He might be feeling a little warm, yes, but that was hardly an indication that he was coming down with something! He was inwardly already planning their most gruesome demise when the two elves apparently decided that they had annoyed him enough and leaned back, looking like a pair of parents who had once again been proven right.

Giving his human friend's forbidding face one look, Legolas decided that further inquiring as to the man's health would right now a mistake. He had long ago found out that teasing him when he was in this mood would result in death, doom or destruction, and so he changed the topic – and besides, he wanted to find out what was going on here. He didn't have the slightest idea, and if he liked something less than feeling annoyed, it was feeling clueless. A Prince of Mirkwood did not feel clueless.

"Be that as it may," he began, ignoring the truly nasty look Aragorn shot him, "but could somebody please explain to me what is going on here? Where are we?"

"In Aberon," Elrohir answered reassuringly. The other elf's reaction wasn't exactly what one could have called reassured, and the twin had to grasp the fair-haired prince's uninjured wrist to stop him from jumping out of his bed in agitation. "Calm down, my friend. We are safe."

"Safe!" Legolas repeated, clearly unconvinced. "_Safe_? Whatever are you talking about? You said yourself that we are in Aberon! How can we be safe?"

Seeing that Legolas was a long way away from being calm or reassured, Elrohir reached out and cautiously grasped his shoulders, taking care not to press down too hard.  
"Legolas," he began as reasonably as he could (Legolas _did _have a point, after all!), "Listen to me. We are safe here. You know that I would never endanger Estel's or your life like this. You can trust me, my friend. We are safe."

The other elf didn't answer immediately, apparently still hard-pressed to accept the truth of Elrohir's words. After a few seconds he nodded very reluctantly.  
"I do trust you, Elrohir. But did Aragorn not tell you what we found out? If Hurag finds out that we are here, he will…"

"He won't find out," Aragorn interrupted his friend who was still tethering rather close to a panic. "And yes, I told them everything we found out. That is why Elrohir was close to starting yet another kinslaying." 

"Oh, you are exaggerating again," Elrohir waved a hand dismissively. "I do not think it would classify as a kinslaying, considering that you're adopted. And besides, I was not even considering killing you."

"Isál?" Aragorn prompted.

"I have to agree with Estel, my lord," the dark-haired captain admitted with a pained grimace, looking very much as if he would rather face a stone-giant with nothing more than a spoon and a silly hat. "You were definitely considering it, if I may say so."

Before this could get any further out of hand, Legolas raised his hand, feeling how his headache intensified once again. He could already feel how the strength returned to his limbs, but in case of his head it was accompanied by roaring pain.  
"Please, do me a favour and discuss this fascinating question with the Lord of the West once you reach the Blessed Realm. Where in Aberon are we?"

"In Master Tibron's house," Elrohir answered, eyeing his friend as if expecting him to become agitated again.

Legolas did not disappoint.  
"In _Tibron's _house? Are you mad? His brother must be working with Hurag!"

"Yes, Toran is," Aragorn nodded patiently. "Tibron is not, however. It has been over a day now since we were brought here. Tibron's had enough time to betray us, and yet he hasn't."

"Over a day?" Legolas repeated incredulously. "How long have I been asleep?"

"One day and a half," the man answered seriously. "Torel, Toran's son, and the son of Tibron found us the night before the last and brought us to their father."

The elven prince had some trouble coming to terms with what his friend was telling him, but then he decided that his questions could wait. If Aragorn had told him, in this tone of voice, with this kind of look on his face, that they had been saved by a group of singing orcs clad in pink armour, he would have believed him, too. Barely, maybe, but still.

"All right," he finally nodded carefully. "So we are safe, at least for now, and will most likely not be betrayed by Tibron or his family. Where are the rest of our party?"

"Back at the stable that we … well, let's say commandeered after the house burnt down," Elrohir answered. His tone of voice was completely unapologetic. "Tibron intercepted us at the main gate and brought us here. Commander Meneldir led the rest of the warriors back to the stable so that no one would get suspicious. It is unlikely that anyone has noticed our absence, at least not yet."

"So the commander and his warriors are in one part of the town and we are in another?" Legolas summed up, arching an eyebrow. He might still be a little confused and suffering from a rather impressive headache, but that didn't mean that he had forgotten all the lessons his tutors and his father's captains had taught him over the years. "I do not mean to sound paranoid, but I believe there is an expression for that. 'Divide and conquer.'" 

"Tibron is on our side, your Highness." Isál's quiet voice announced calmly, surprising not only the fair-haired elf. It was no secret that Isál had nothing kind to say about any human in this town, and no secret either that he couldn't stand Tibron, the man who had brought him the news of Elvynd's death. It was a somewhat petty reaction, considering that nothing of this was Tibron's fault, but not even the Firstborn were above such feelings. "He will not betray us, nor has he ever wanted to. He truly wants to help us."

Legolas looked at the other elf for a long moment, but finally decided that if he would believe Aragorn if he told him stories about orcs in pink armour, he should believe Isál as well. He didn't know him all too well, but the dark-haired captain _was _one of Lord Glorfindel's officers. If the golden-haired elf lord – not to mention Lord Elrond, Elrohir and Aragorn – trusted him and his judgment, then he would, too.

"All right," he conceded after a few more seconds. "I will trust your judgement, Captain. But even if it is as you say and we are safe for the moment, what are you planning to do about Donrag, that … woman and that _captain_ of hers?"

Even Aragorn, who could more than sympathise with his friend's obvious hatred for the 'Fox', blinked, a little startled. The elven prince usually reserved that special, burning level of intense hatred for Sauron and his creatures. Then again, he reasoned, the 'Fox' was far more despicable than your average orc or uruk.

"Easy enough," he finally replied in a calm, very cold tone of voice. "We kill them, both of them. Then we find Erestor and return home as fast as possible." He paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. "If we have time, I wouldn't mind stopping by here again on our way back and killing Hurag. Slowly, if somehow possible."

Elrohir smiled at his human brother, a smile that reminded not only the ranger of a predator that was thinking about tearing someone's throat out.  
"I would like that very much, Estel."

"Wonderful," the man smiled back in just the same way. That smile in combination with the bruises and cuts that adorned his features was a slightly disconcerting sight. Isál asked himself, not for the first time in his life, if sons of Elrond – adopted or not – were automatically gifted with this particular, off-putting smile. They probably were. "If we are agreed on this," the man went on, "then where is the problem?"

"'Where is the problem'?" Elrohir repeated, apparently torn between outrage and incredulity. "Did you hear that, Isál?" He didn't even wait for the captain to nod forlornly before he continued. "Let me tell you where the problem is, dear brother. The problem is that you are mad. Completely, totally, utterly mad. I honestly have no idea how you survived Erestor's lessons with your kind of logic."

"Why?" Legolas demanded to know. He had the very distinct feeling that he was missing something important here. "What are you talking about? What logic?"

"There is absolutely nothing wrong," Aragorn interrupted himself, trying to suppress a cough, "with my logic."

"He doesn't possess a shred of logic, that's the problem," Elrohir ignored his brother's words. They would have to talk about this condescending behaviour, Aragorn decided between two coughs that belied his earlier assurances that he was 'just fine'. "Let me tell you what his grand plan is, Legolas: He wants us to go back to Donrag, preferably but not necessarily in the night, and enter the city via a secret gate whose location he cannot remember."

"It is not a secret gate," Aragorn explained patiently. "It is a gate that is not guarded as strongly. It is the gate they used to get us into the city, most likely in order not to announce our presence to the general population."

"That may very well be," Isál nodded, speaking in his most reasonable tone of voice, "but that doesn't help us, Estel, if you cannot remember which gate it is."

The confidence on the man's face faded slightly.  
"I know that, Isál, but it is our only option as far as I can see. We need to get Erestor out of there – _soon_. And I don't mean tomorrow rather than the day after it. I mean _now_, this very instant. As soon as possible."

Elrohir did not ask what he was implying, nor did he have to. He remembered every single word Aragorn had said when he had described their old teacher's condition, and he didn't need to be told that Erestor's health would not have improved.  
"I agree with you, _muindor_. I understand why you had to leave him, and I want to free him as badly as I do, but…"

"I doubt that, Elrohir," Aragorn interrupted his elven brother. He knew that it was the stress, pain and fear that still clouded his mind that caused him to lash out at his brother, but he simply couldn't help it. "I very much doubt that. You weren't there. You haven't seen what I have seen, what we have seen. I have known Erestor for practically all my life, and never before have I seen him like this. He tried not to let us see how bad off he really is, but he still couldn't hide it. Do you know what that means? For him?" 

"Yes," Elrohir finally said softly. "Yes, I do. But that doesn't change anything."

"I think it is a good plan," Legolas announced, his forehead still wrinkled in a frown. "In my opinion, however, it would be best if we separated our forces into two groups."

Elrohir and Isál stared at him as if he'd just said that he wanted to join Sauron's armies.  
"Let me see if I understand you correctly," the elven twin finally began. "You not only agree with my dear brother's harebrained plan, you want us to split up first so we can get ourselves killed more easily? Am I correct so far?"

"Yes," the fair-haired elf nodded dispassionately. "Even though I wouldn't use these particular terms." The two Noldor were still staring at him as if he'd just gone mad (and, a small voice inside of him commented wryly, perhaps he had, too), and so he went on, "Aragorn might not remember where that gate is, but I do. I can show it to you."

Aragorn shot him a look that was somewhere between surprise and suspicion, and Legolas had to work hard in order not to smile. Aragorn could look ridiculously like Lord Elrond sometimes.

"When they brought us to Donrag, I was a little more capable of paying attention to our surroundings, _mellon nín_," the elf reminded him. Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but then he remembered how he had felt that night three days, when he had feared that Elrohir and Isál had died in the fire. He was too honest to dispute that he had been little more than a nervous wreck. "I saw which route they took," Legolas went on. "It is a small gate, almost undetectable. I know where it is, but we can't get anywhere near it with a large group, no matter how stealthy we are. We need to split up." 

"Oh, no," Elrohir shook his head. "I am not dividing my forces, Legolas. This is suicide."

"Not necessarily," the blond prince shook his head minutely. "We just need to get into the city separately, that's all. If the second group leaves Aberon two or three hours after the first, it should be enough. We don't have to _move _separately; we can wait for the second group before we do anything."

"'We'?" Aragorn asked suspiciously. "What do you mean by 'we'?"

"A good question, my brother," Elrohir stated in a curt tone of voice. "You are not going anywhere. Neither of you."

"'We' means we," Legolas explained not very helpfully. "As in Elrohir, Captain Isál, I and whichever warriors they will choose to accompany us. _You _will stay here."

"And you can decide that because you are perfectly well yourself and I am a child who cannot think for himself," Aragorn nodded in mock seriousness. "Surely."

Elrohir raised a hand before the two of them could start insulting each other in earnest.  
"Neither of you is going anywhere," he repeated. "Least of all to Donrag or anywhere near it."

"Be reasonable, Elrohir," Legolas said calmly, as if he was just demanding that the other elf sit down and have a little chat about the beginning of the world with him. "One of us must lead you, is that not correct? I doubt that you wish to trust a human guide."

"No, we do not," Elrohir shook his head emphatically. "What one wishes and what one is forced to do are, however, two often diametrically different things. You have lived long enough to know that, Legolas, or so I had thought until now."

"Elrohir…"

"No!" the dark-haired elf exclaimed and shook his head once again. "I almost lost you three days ago! I will not sit idly by while you ride off to your doom once again! I am the leader of this party, Legolas, and am therefore responsible for you, just like I am responsible for Aragorn!" 

"You are _not _responsible for me, son of Elrond," Legolas retorted mildly, yet there was a warning undertone in his voice. "I am an adult, both in the eyes of your kin and my own. I am not a child or a naïve little novice who has yet to see his first battle. I know what I am doing, and I am perfectly capable of making my own decision and accepting the consequences of my actions. For the sake of our friendship I beg you not to forget this."

Elrohir, apparently realising that he had overstepped a boundary he was usually observing quite scrupulously, took a deep breath in order to control his feelings and finally nodded.  
"You are right, my friend. Forgive me."

The almost undetectable shadow that had laid itself over the other elf's bruised face lifted almost instantly, and he shook his head minutely.  
"It's all right, _mellon nín_. It's already forgotten. But," he continued, returning to the earlier topic with a single-mindedness that reminded the other beings in the room of his father, "I am still right. You will need a guide. Tibron's absence would be noticed, I presume, so he cannot lead you there, even if he wanted to. There's still his son, of course, and the other boy…"

"No," Aragorn shook his head sharply. "I know that you will probably laugh at me if I say this, but they are little more than children. Vonar – Tibron's son," he added when Legolas frowned in confusion, "and Torel, the son of Toran, are brave, yes, but they are not ready for something like this. They have already risked much, if not everything, by bringing us into this city; I will not willingly put them in any more danger."

"I have to agree," Elrohir nodded solemnly. "Torel has helped us much, and we are indebted to him, his uncle and his cousin, but he is already in over his head. Involving him further in all this would serve no purpose, and I doubt that Tibron would thank us for it."

There was a reluctant glimmer in his eyes as he admitted this, since he knew exactly what Legolas would say next. Once again, his blond friend did not disappoint.

"It is as I thought," Legolas said calmly. "We are out of options, Elrohir. We have to do something, tonight, or all we will return with to your father and Lord Glorfindel will be their friend's body. You know it, Aragorn knows it, and I know it. Please, Elrohir. Let me help you. Let me show Gasur and his lady that there are certain things you don't get away with. Let me show them what happens if you assault the Firstborn and those under their protection."

"We cannot attack them openly," Elrohir cautioned his friend, cursing the other's eloquent tongue a moment later. Legolas had already won, and he knew it, too. "We are too few, even if we get into the city undetected. If we had two more companies…"

"Nobody is talking about an open assault," Legolas shook his head. "I am not stupid, Elrohir." The dark-haired elf only raised an eyebrow and gave him a pointed look, but Legolas ignored him. "I would never ask you to risk the lives of your warriors in such a manner. The main goal has to be Lord Erestor. We will try to free him secretly, with drawing as little attention as possible. But," he added, something very dark appearing in his eyes, "if I come across Gasur or one of his lieutenants, I will kill them. Without question or delay, and without a second's hesitation."

"That," Elrohir replied with a very disconcerting smile and a side-look at Aragorn and the bandages that were visible, covering his wrists and right hand, "would be very acceptable." 

"So we are agreed?" Legolas asked, waving his right hand to silence Aragorn who was beginning to protest. "If we leave in the early afternoon and the second group follows maybe two hours later, I believe we can get into the city without being detected."

Elrohir looked at the slightly younger elf and narrowed his eyes. There was reluctant acceptance in his eyes, paired with something that looked almost like suspicion.

"We are agreed, if you answer a question. Honestly." Legolas inclined his head, not even bothering to claim that he always answered all questions honestly, and Elrohir continued seriously, "Are you up to it? You must tell me how well you are, Legolas, and do so without holding anything back. If it turns out that you are not strong enough yet, it could jeopardise the entire mission. I will not lead my men into such a situation if the guide on whose direction they depend is hardly strong enough to stay upright."

Legolas looked at Aragorn who had apparently been dumb-struck into silence by what was happening around him and then at Elrohir, and finally nodded firmly.  
"I will not lie to you, my friend. Right now I am feeling as if something big and heavy had fallen on top of me and had sat on my chest for a few days. I am, however, well enough for this kind of mission. If I rest for a few more hours, I should be able to lead you to Donrag – granted that I do not have to use my left arm for a while."

Elrohir looked at him for a long time, searching for a hint that the other elf hadn't told the truth or had held something back, but then he nodded slowly. Legolas knew the limits of his own body, and was responsible enough to listen to his body's complaints. The elven prince might act recklessly from time to time – all right, _a lot _– but he would never endanger the lives of his warriors. If he said that he was strong enough for this, then he was.

Before he could voice his thoughts, however, Aragorn regained the ability to speak. His face slowly began to assemble a dark red colour, which, considering that he was still far too pale, was a rather upsetting sight. 

"Have you taken complete leave of your senses?" he demanded to know. "Are you actually _agreeing _with that mad scheme of his?"

"Yes," Elrohir said as evenly as he could in sight of his brother's obvious agitation. "I do not like this one bit, Estel, but we do not have any other choice."

"If that is so," the man began in a deceivingly calm tone of voice, "then I will accompany you as well. Someone will need to make sure that you don't get lost three yards away from the town gates."

"No," Legolas and Elrohir shook their heads simultaneously. "Definitely not," Elrohir went on. "You are not well enough to leave this house. You will stay here, _muindor nín_."

"No," Aragorn shook his head. His tone of voice was friendly, but utterly uncompromising. "I will not."

"Yes, you will," Elrohir disagreed, having to fight the feeling that he was just experiencing some sort of déjà vu. He'd had this kind of conversation very frequently in Estel's youth, much to the chagrin of their father and anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity. "Please, Estel, listen to me. More importantly, listen to your body. Your injuries by themselves are not to be taken lightly. You have, however, also taken a very hard hit on the head and nearly drowned in an ice-cold river. After that, you spent hours in the cold, wearing wet clothes. If you are lucky, all you will have caught is a cold. If you, however, overextend yourself – and overextending would be if you left your bed, not to mention riding or fighting or doing something equally stupid – you will catch something much worse."

Aragorn rolled his eyes.  
"Yes, Elrohir, I know. I do not even want to dispute your claims. I know how susceptible to illnesses my kind is. What you are forgetting, however, is that Legolas is not well himself."

"I am…" Legolas began to protest, but was silenced by a _look _Elrohir shot him.

"He is an elf, Estel," Elrohir simply said. "You are not. Forgive me for saying it like this, but you simply are not strong enough yet. I cannot allow you to come, knowing that your health will almost certainly deteriorate."

"So will his," Aragorn pointed out angrily. "And yours, maybe, or Isál's, or Meneldir's. How can you expect me to just let you go into danger and do nothing?"

"The same way Elladan and I let you go in Baredlen, when you went off to rescue Glorfindel," Elrohir answered readily. "We listened to you then."

The young man's mouth opened as if to say something, but then he closed it again without saying a word. He glared at his brother, looking very much like a very angry fish out of water.  
"This," he said slowly and very clearly, "is not fair." 

"No," Elrohir agreed with a small, almost sad smile. "It isn't."

It really wasn't, of course, as Aragorn pointed out many times over the next few hours. But, as Elrohir had said earlier, what one wanted and what one was forced to do were two very different things, and in the end the man fell silent, realising that there was nothing he could say that would sway his brother's or friend's mind. They insisted that he would be safer here, and promised him to bring back Erestor and to look after one another.

Not even twelve hours later they would regret their refusal. They would be only mildly comforted by the fact that they weren't the only ones.   
**  
****  
****  
**  
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No matter how hard he tried to calm himself and stop pacing, he simply couldn't. It wasn't that he wasn't trying, no, most certainly not. He was very aware of the fact that it was only making him feel dizzy and even more insecure and confused than he already was, but he simply couldn't stop himself. 

Tibron snorted, wheeled around and walked back the way he had come. He knew that he should be more mature than this, and usually he would be, too, but … well, these were anything but normal circumstances. In fact, he thought wryly, they were very, very abnormal, and if anyone had told him last week that he would be hiding a group of elves in his house who had escaped from Donrag and were now hiding from Hurag and his own brother, he would have told them that they were mad. Or that they'd had too much to drink, or maybe even both.

But it was very true, and the more he thought about it, the more the entire thing looked like a nightmare. Tibron sighed, stopped in front of the window, gave the busy street below a quick glance and forced himself to remain where he was. It wasn't that he didn't believe what the elves had told him. It came to him as no surprise that Hurag would resort to such methods – he had never liked the older man anyway. He was judgemental, insufferably arrogant and so belligerent that even his supporters were most of the time allegedly only one step away from strangling him. Still, if it had been only that, he might have had some problems believing the elves' allegations. Hurag, however, was also something else: Power-hungry. He wanted money and influence, and would stop at nothing to get it.

Tibron sighed again and softly banged his forehead against the window frame. No, he wasn't surprised at all, and Hurag could go hang for all he cared. What he couldn't understand was why Toran would go along with this. That wasn't entirely correct, he amended a moment later, he could very well imagine why his brother would support Hurag and his plans. Toran was not stupid, after all, and he had to know better than most people what Hurag was capable of. His brother had a wife and three children to consider, all of which could suffer certain … "accidents" at all times.

What he didn't understand, however, was why Toran hadn't come to him. They'd always had a good relationship, and there was no reason why his brother shouldn't have confided in him. Toran knew that he loved him and would help him as much as he could – or did he? Tibron was aware that there was a rift between them that had been developing for some time now, but he hadn't thought that it was already too deep for his brother to bridge.

The blond man closed his eyes for a second, trying to ignore the sharp pain and disappointment that stabbed through his heart. Why had Toran done it? Had he forgotten everything their father had taught them when they had been young? Had he forgotten all the lessons about honour and hospitality, about honesty and what was right and wrong? He was not naïve himself and was not above bending the rules a little from time to time, but this … what the his brother had apparently done … this went beyond the boundaries of what was acceptable. If Toran had only said something, if he had only once told him what was brewing on the horizon, he would have helped him. He would have done everything and anything in his power to help protect his sister-in-law and his nephews and niece, and they would have found a way to stop Hurag… 

But now it was too late, Tibron mused bitterly. He loved his brother, but now that he had helped the elves, he had taken a stand against him. That in itself didn't bother him all too much; he was popular with his fellows and well-liked by the traders that frequented his tavern. If this ever reached the public, he wouldn't have anything to fear. The problem was that it _wouldn't _reach the public, at least not at a time when it would still matter. He was not a man prone to forebodings and premonitions, but he had the very distinct feeling that something would happen, soon. There was a conflict coming, between Donrag and Hurag and the Elves, and Toran and he would be on different sides.

Tibron shuddered openly. He could still remember the look the elf lord's son had given him in the alley when he had told him that he knew where the ranger and the blond elf were. Never before in his entire, not exactly uneventful life had he seen such an intense look of barely suppressed fury and worry, and he could very well imagine what he and the rest of the elves would do to those that had helped or aided Hurag in any way. To face such fury – no, he wouldn't wish that on anyone, least of all his brother.

It was a dilemma if there ever was one, he thought, almost amused. It was clearly a lose-lose situation: He could either tell Toran what had happened and whom he was sheltering – and risk that he told Hurag about it – or he could not tell him, therefore condemning him to finding himself on the wrong side of this conflict.

Tibron once again beat his head against the wooden frame, this time a little more forcefully. He wanted nothing more than go to his brother and plead with him to see reason, to stop this madness while there was still time, but he simply couldn't. The elves were his guests, and he would be damned if he endangered them in any way. And no matter how much he disliked it, Toran couldn't be trusted at the moment. He laughed inwardly, but there was no mirth in his heart. He couldn't trust his own brother, couldn't trust him because he had been conspiring to kill those who were guests of their town. If someone had told him that a week ago, he wouldn't have told them that they were mad. He would have hit them.

And to top everything off nicely, he added in more scathing a voice than he could remember using for a long time, the elves he was trying his best to protect were right now trying to get themselves killed. Why they were doing it, he couldn't fathom, and by the Gods, he had tried. Not only that, he had pleaded with them, had begged them to reconsider, but they hadn't listened. He smiled darkly. What a surprise. No one was apparently listening to him anymore, or telling him anything truly important.

"Father?" a soft voice behind him asked, and he turned to see his son enter the room, looking at him in a rather strange way, almost as if he was expecting him to do something truly weird. "Are you all right?"

He realised that he was standing in his study, smiling to himself and banging his head against the window frame, and had to suppress another irrational smile. Vonar might be on to something if he thought him crazy, which didn't surprise him in the slightest. The boy might have got his looks from his side of the family, but he'd got his brains from his mother. And a good thing that was, too, he mused. His wife would never have got herself into this kind of situation, he was sure about that.

"Yes?" he asked, as if he was behaving in a completely normal and understandable fashion. "What is it?"

"The elves wish to speak with you," the boy told him. "They're about to leave."

"Yes, of course," he nodded. "Send them in."

Vonar nodded as well and was about to turn back around, but his father raised a hand.  
"Vonar," he began, "just in case all this…" He trailed off, realising that he didn't want to explain to his son just what he was talking about. "You were right. You and Torel did the right thing when you helped the elf and the ranger."

"Did we?" Vonar asked softly, raising his eyebrows. "What about Uncle Toran and…"

"Uncle Toran," Tibron interrupted him, "is not your problem. He's mine, and you must not concern yourself with him. But yes, it was the right thing to do. Not only because I don't even want to think about what the other elves would have done to us if they'd found out that we had the chance to help them and didn't. Far more important is that they are our guests, Vonar, guests of our family and of our town. The gods do not look kindly on those who betray the laws of hospitality."

"Yes, father," the young man nodded his head. "But … I didn't only do it because of that. It wasn't that I had much choice – Torel more or less talked me into it – but…" He shook his head and shrugged. "I also did it because … well … when I saw the ranger that night, barely alive, I just had to help them. No one should be allowed to do such things to others and get away with it."

"No, they shouldn't," Tibron shook his head with a small smile. "There is nothing wrong with sympathy and compassion, my son. Or with the desire to punish those who have done such things to others." His smile widened. "This only confirms what I've always thought."

"And that would be, father?" Vonar asked.

"That you've got your mother's brains," his father smiled. "Now send the elves in, before they get impatient and break down the door." 

Vonar smiled back and turned around, walking over to the door. He hadn't even realised how much he had needed to hear his father say that – even though he knew that he had done the right thing, he hadn't known if it had really been the _right _thing. The young man re-thought about what he had just thought and had to hide the grin that wanted to spread over his face. And he had thought his father was behaving strangely…

The wide smile disappeared from his face in the moment he opened the door and came face to face with three elves, two dark-haired and the other one blond. One of them was the one had not too long ago dragged through the streets with the help of his cousin and a semi-conscious ranger, the second was the son of the Lord of Rivendell – Lord Elmohir or something like that? – and the third was that captain, the one who followed the elf lord's son like a shadow.

None of them looked overly happy or friendly, but it was the fair-haired elf who looked worst by far. Even under the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing one could easily see the thick bandages that wound around his torso and left arm, and the bruises on his face were rather impressive, too. The cut on his throat that had looked so bad when he and Torel had found him was bandaged, too, but he could still remember just what it had looked like. Vonar shook his head inwardly. Just how that elf was on his feet, not to mention walking anywhere, was beyond him. Perhaps it was true what the people said; perhaps elves did use some kind of magic.

The young man's thoughts trailed off quickly, and he nodded at the elves and stepped to the side. None of the three showed any reaction except for the elf lord's son who nodded back at him, and once again Vonar had to suppress a small shudder. He didn't know why, but somehow elves were making him feel decidedly nervous, even though he knew that he hadn't done anything to make them angry in any way.

Tibron's smile faded as well as he looked at the three elves. He didn't know all that much about elves, he was more than willing to admit that, but he was rather sure that even elves shouldn't be walking around if they looked like the fair-haired elf in front of him.  
"Lord Elrohir, I thought you were jesting. You can't be serious."

"I am not jesting, Master Tibron," Elrohir shook his head resolutely. "We need to leave, but we wished to talk to you first."

"About …about what?" Tibron asked, slightly distracted. He was still staring at the blond elf, half-expecting him to fall flat on his face. If it hadn't been for the determined, very stubborn sparkle in his eyes, he would have betted he would fall, too.

"First of all, we would like to thank you for your help," the dark-haired elf said. "Without you and you kin, my friends would have died. We understand that by helping us you have placed yourself and your family in danger. In the name of my father I ask you to accept our deepest gratitude for your aid and hospitality."

"It was my pleasure," the man inclined his head. "You did not think that we would allow your … brother and friend to die, did you?"

Elrohir smiled wryly.  
"To be perfectly honest with you, Master Human, yes, that is exactly what I thought you would do. I have never been more pleased about being proven wrong, though."

Tibron returned the smile. He wished that he could feel surprised or affronted by the elf's words, but he couldn't. After what had happened to him and his friends, he couldn't blame him.  
"As I said, it was my pleasure, Master Elf. I do have a question, though: What do I have to do to convince you that what you're planning is a very bad idea?"

"There is nothing you can do to convince us of that," the fair-haired elf shook his head, sounding rather healthy for a person who just had to be one step away from passing out. "We _know _that it's not a very good idea." 

Tibron thought about asking the elf just why they were doing it then, but decided against it. If they were suicidal, he'd rather not know.   
"Can I at least convince you to stay here, my lord?" he asked, looking at the blond elf. "I do not mean to affront you, but you look … well, not too good."

The elf smiled in a rather strained way.  
"I've been hearing that a lot lately."

The blond man shook his head exasperatedly, but he didn't try to sway the elf's mind. He owned a tavern and had met a lot of people, after all, and he knew when he was fighting a losing battle. He had no desire to get involved in an argument he would never win.

"All right," he conceded. "You can do whatever you want, of course. Are you sure you don't want me to find you a guide? Giras' brother is working in the tavern, and he…"

"No," Elrohir shook his head quickly. "Thank you, but no. I don't mean to insult you, but…"

"You don't trust anyone," Tibron returned the elf's favour and interrupted him. "I see." The dark-haired elf opened his mouth as if to protest, but the man raised a hand and interrupted him again. "No, my lord, it's all right. I completely understand."

"Then you will also understand that we need to leave now," Elrohir went on. "I have, however, two favours to ask of you."

"Name them," the man nodded. "I will do what I can." 

"The first is about Strider," Elrohir began, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "He will, as you know, not be coming with us." 

Tibron could hardly suppress a grin. He did indeed know, for he had been present for a part of their conversation. The ranger had _ not _been happy about his friends' decision, that much was certain.   
"Yes," he agreed. "I know."

"Then you already know that he did not … agree with our reasoning," Elrohir went on, deciding to put it this way. "You have already been most helpful, and I thank you again for supplying us with the medicines he needs. I have to ask you for something else, though: Please make sure that he doesn't leave this house. He will want to follow us, and if there is no one here to stop him, he will disappear as soon as he can stand unaided. It shouldn't be a problem since we should be back soon, but we all know that things rarely go as planned. We wanted to leave two warriors here with him, but…"

Elrohir trailed off, and Tibron had to hide yet another smile. So that was what that rather heated argument had been about that had been audible two storeys above their room.

"He dissuaded you?" the man finally offered.

"Yes," the dark-haired elf nodded reluctantly. "We promised him to take all of the warriors with us, and as unhappy as I am about that, I will keep that promise. So I must ask you to look after him, make sure that he stays in bed and doesn't do anything … stupid."

This time Tibron smiled openly. It sounded very much as if this was the voice of experience speaking.  
"I promise that I will do what I can, my lord," he assured Elrohir. The elf looked instantly more relaxed, and so he added, "What about the second favour?"

"That should be far easier to achieve," Elrohir said solemnly. "If you haven't heard anything from me or one of my men in two days, you may safely assume that we are dead or will soon be. Don't try to do anything; just take this letter," he reached into his cloak and withdrew a large, folded piece of parchment that was closed with a wax seal, "and see that it is delivered to Rivendell. My father will know what to do."

"I will," Tibron promised solemnly and took the letter, sliding it into a pocket of his vest. "If it indeed comes to that, I will do what you ask. What about the ranger, though?"

"Drug him," Legolas answered immediately. "Tie him up, knock him out, do whatever you can to keep him away from Donrag. If you can, get him back to Rivendell, if you cannot, keep him chained up somewhere until Lord Elrond arrives here."

"That should make a good impression," the man mumbled. 

"Oh, Lord Elrond wouldn't be surprised in the slightest. Believe me."

"I … see," Tibron said, somewhat weakly. It was clear that he did not. "I will do what I can, I promise. We will look after the ranger." 

"Thank you," Elrohir inclined his head, and the sincerity on his face was easy to see. "For everything. If all goes according to plan, we will have returned before the next sun rises."

"I hope so, my lord," the man said, obviously meaning it. "I seriously hope so."

"So do I, Master Human," Elrohir retorted in a similar tone of voice. "May Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar watch over you and your family." 

"And over you," Tibron bowed his head automatically, even though he didn't really know what the elf was talking about. Then again, only because you didn't know what someone else was saying it didn't mean that you had to be rude, did it?

The dark-haired elf returned the gesture and a moment later he turned around and walked toward the door, trailed by his captain who hadn't said a single word and had only watched the humans in the room with his unforgiving, dark blue eyes. The blond elf was about to follow them, but then he hesitated, turning back to Tibron and his son.

"Please look after Strider," he asked softly, something in his voice clearly stating that he didn't like having to beg them for anything. "He is still young and sometimes reckless. See to it that he doesn't get himself into any more trouble. He's had enough for a while."

"So have you, Master Elf," Tibron pointed out before he was even realising what he was saying.

"Aye, I have," the elf nodded calmly. "But I am an elf. I do not contract things like illnesses, and recover from serious wounds far quicker than he does.."

"Then you and your people are truly blessed," the man said emphatically. "Do not worry. I promised your lord that we would look after the ranger, and I will keep my word."

Legolas only bowed his head, not bothering to point out that Elrohir was, in fact, not his lord. He had no intention of telling the humans here who he really was, and would welcome it if they thought him nothing more than one of Elrohir's captains or friends. As long as neither the twins or Aragorn nor Celylith or his father heard about it, he didn't care.

"Thank you, Master Tibron. I will not forget this." 

Tibron inclined his head as well, and a second later the elves were gone. Tibron returned to the window and watched them leave his house, their faces covered by their cloaks' hoods, the blond elf being flanked left and right by his companions. They soon passed out sight, disappearing down the street that would lead them back to the stable where the rest of their warriors were.

The blond man bit back a sigh, not wanting to show his son how insecure and worried he truly was. He didn't really know what the elves were planning; they hadn't told him more than that they needed to return to Donrag. He was not stupid, though; he could imagine why they wanted to return to that less-than-hospitable place. If there was the slightest chance that there was a friend of his in that town, alone with that insane captain about whom people talked even here only in hushed voices and with fear on their faces, he would do everything in his power to free him, too.

Tibron took a deep breath and told himself to stop worrying. There was nothing he could do to help the elves apart from doing what they had asked of him, he knew that very well. Besides, if he couldn't calm himself, someone would get suspicious, and that was the last thing he could afford right now. He had to appear in front of the council this evening to discuss some business matters he should have been concentrating on this day, and there were enough men on the council that knew him well enough to notice that there was something bothering him.

His brother, for example.

Tibron frowned, inwardly cursing the fates for doing this to him and his family. A moment later he shook his head and turned away from the window, placing one hand on his son's shoulder and steering him into the direction of the door. The boy did not protest; he did in fact appear to be glad to escape the somewhat oppressive atmosphere that weighed heavily on the room.

He would have done well to keep watching to street for a few seconds longer, though, for only a moment later a dark form disentangled itself from the dark shadows that the buildings to the right of his house cast and quickly began to walk down the main street.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend  
muindor - brother (as in 'real' brother, not chosen brother or twin brother)_

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Well, what do you think? Will everything go according to plan? •readers simply raise eyebrows• Well, I just thought there might be some optimists among you guys... Then again, I think I'm asking too much. You know me, after all. Be that as it may, next time we see just what happens if you let Legolas make any plans and Aragorn realises something he should have figured out a long time ago. Silly elves/rangers/humans. •g• As always, reviews are much appreciated since they distract me from the Forum Romanum, Alexander the Great and other things like that. Thanks! •g•

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****Additional A/N:**

I'm right now trying the whole email thing, meaníng that I'm sending review responses by email. We'll see how well that goes; if it works reasonably well and isn't too much work, I think we can stick with it. If I have forgotten anyone - and the chances for that aren't too bad, knowing my memory! - please send me an email or club me over the head with something heavy. I'll try not to forget again! Sorry for all this - blame ff-net, not me. •shrugs•

Oh, and I apologise to:

Just Jordy, Jazmin3 Firewing, Grumpy, Nin and Washow. I don't have your email addresses. If you didn't include them on purpose, wonderful, if you'd like to receive review responses in the future, just send me an email or say so in your next review. Thanks!


	30. What Can Go Wrong

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.  
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I had a good excuse for all this. I really did. I seem to have forgotten it, though, so I won't even bother trying to explain it. Let's just say that going somewhere for longer than half a year is proving to be more trouble than I originally thought. My insurance company realised that everything isn't as easy as everyone first believed, I need to change my flight since my plans, too, have changed, and I am currently trying to get all the documents I need for my scholarship program. Most of them are still with my mother's tax adviser, though, which is making everything so much more interesting. Other than that, people I haven't seen in ages are popping up all over the city, and I have to see all of them before I leave. •sighs sadly• I know, I know, I have a very taxing schedule. •g•

Besides, I still have to look for a place in Madrid, which isn't all that easy if your Spanish isn't even good enough to order food in a restaurant. Well, to be fair, I could probably order, but I wouldn't get what I want. So, if anyone of you guys (•pointed look at readers•) know of someone who's looking for a flatmate in Madrid, send me an email and we'll be friends for life. Honestly, I mean it. •g•

I'm doing my best to finish this story before I leave (which will be in approximately 10-14 days), but I can't promise anything. I'll post at least once before that, though, so I'll tell you then. To answer your question: This story will have about 34 or 35 chapters. Plus/minus one, as always.  
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****All right, here's chapter 30, in which, as the title suggests, not everything goes according to plan. •evil grin• Very little does, in fact. Other than that, we find out what Isál's commander, Meneldir, thinks about the entire thing, Legolas meets the person who taught Glorfindel how to pick locks, several people are faced with making rather impossible decisions, and Aragorn finally puts two and two together. I know, I know. About time, too. •g•**

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 30  
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**Meneldir didn't really know why he was still feeling annoyed. Considering that he had been annoyed ever since they had reached Aberon, it would be fairer to say that he was even more annoyed than usual.

That in itself was strange, the elven commander thought darkly. They were leaving Aberon, after all, so he should be ecstatic or at least close to it. That he wasn't had several reasons, and try as he might, he couldn't figure out which one he liked least of all.

One was that Lord Elrohir was mad – completely and utterly mad, in a way no elf had any business of being. The worst thing was that it wasn't a sort of rambling, incomprehensible madness. That would have been easy to deal with, and even easier to disregard. No, it was a madness that actually made sense – at least in a way. When Lord Elrohir looked at you in that wide-eyed, sincere way of his, projecting the air of someone who knew exactly what he was doing, it was easy to be fooled and actually believe that his foolish plan could work.

Which it would not, of course, because Lord Elrohir clearly did _not _know what he was doing. Or maybe the other elf did, and he was the one who was too mad to be able to comprehend his plan. That was, in fact, the second reason: No matter whether Lord Elrohir was mad or not, _he _ certainly was, for going along with this in the first place.

He hadn't had any choice in the matter, of course, something he knew only too well. He could have told Lord Elrohir and Captain Isál that he wouldn't do what they asked – a possibility that was so wholly unimaginable and ridiculous that it wasn't worth entertaining in the first place. They were his superiors, and he would never disregard one of their orders unless it was going against his own code of honour or endangering the lives of his men needlessly. Even though he sometimes thought himself mad because of it, he trusted their judgement and wisdom enough to do what they told him. 

He could also have stayed in Aberon – he would surely have been able to convince the two of them that it was better if someone guarded the reckless excuse for a human being that was Lord Elrond's adopted son. That, however, would have been an act of cowardice that was unbecoming a commander, and besides, if he'd done that, he would most likely already have killed two or three humans. In a most painful, thoroughly unpleasant way, and the Valar knew that he'd thought of many in the past few days.

It wasn't that he had something against humans, the blond commander thought, feeling almost indignant at his own thought. No one who served Lord Elrond Half-elven would admit to such feelings – if they existed in the first place, that was. The Noldor of Rivendell were, as a general rule, less xenophobic and introvert than, for example, their Silvan brethren of Mirkwood, and someone who was serving an elf whose human heritage was common knowledge would be more than stupid to show that he disregarded the Second People.

Be that as it may, there were those who did not value the human race in general and the humans of Eriador in particular, even among the inhabitants of Imladris. Few of them, however, dared voice their opinion in public, knowing what their lord and most others thought about such prejudices. Meneldir himself didn't tolerate narrow-minded people in his unit, as did the vast majority of Lord Glorfindel's officers.

The fair-haired elf frowned slightly as he remembered the last time he had had to deal with a problem of this kind. It had been not too long ago, in fact, maybe eight or nine years. It had, of course, been something Estel had been involved in, even though he had to admit that the young human was not to blame for once. The only problem was that he had been learning too well and too quickly, therefore requiring his adopted brothers to involve others than themselves and Lord Glorfindel in the young man's training.

Most of the elves who had been asked to help had been happy to oversee his training – except for an elf from Captain Elvynd's company. Meneldir couldn't remember his name; he had hardly known him, for he had always considered him overly arrogant and rather insufferable. It hadn't taken him – or Thalar, one of Captain Elvynd's commanders – too long to find out that the elf treated Elrond's adopted son in a less than courteous way, to put it mildly, and even less time to realise that the boy didn't intend to tell anyone about it. Estel had always been like this, ever since he had been a little child: Stubborn, mule-headed, and fiercely convinced that he could handle any problem on his own.

Meneldir smiled slightly. In the beginning, they had decided to do nothing, but after he had watched the young human train for hours on end to gain his instructor's approval only to be brusquely told that he needn't even try to contend with the Firstborn, he had decided that enough was enough. Thalar and he had discussed their options, and then as today there had been few. They couldn't go to Lord Elrond; if the elf lord found out about this, he would be very, _very _displeased. Estel didn't want anyone else involved, so that would do little good. They couldn't tell the Lords Elladan and Elrohir either, because they would simply kill the other elf, and the same went for their captains.

So they had taken matter into their own hands, and rather eagerly, too. Both of them liked the young human who was their lord's adopted son, but even if they had not, it wouldn't have mattered. Those who disrespected Lord Elrond's family disrespected their lord himself, and not one of Rivendell's captains would suffer that to happen. It had taken a few days' of careful planning, but finally they had intercepted the other warrior in the garden. Even though Meneldir was a rather modest elf, he had to admit that he could be rather intimidating and forceful if he had to be, and Thalar was no gentle, weak-willed person either. To make a long story short, after a while the warrior had seen the error of his ways and sworn the most solemn oaths that he would rethink his life and attitude. The next morning he had gone to Captain Elvynd and asked to be reassigned to one of the border patrols – for the next few decades or so. Neither the twins nor Estel or Lord Elrond had ever found out what had happened. 

Meneldir tore himself away from that rather satisfying memory, knowing that their situation was far too precarious for him to ride around daydreaming. Since he _hadn't _refused to follow Lord Elrohir's orders and they _hadn't _stayed in Aberon, they had left the town about half an hour ago, roughly two hours after the first group had left. By now he was beginning to suspect that he had made a mistake – he wanted to help Lord Erestor as much as the next person, yes, but he didn't think that Prince Legolas' idea was overly smart. The blond elf sighed inaudibly. Whom was he trying to kid – he thought that Prince Legolas' idea was very, very bad. He might be younger than Lord Elrohir and his brother, and also younger than the prince (even if not by much), but he did know that it was never a good idea to divide your forces. 

Unless you _wanted _to get yourself – and your men – captured, killed, maimed, tortured and generally inconvenienced in multiple ways.

He was still pondering the question of when and how exactly he had got himself into this situation – it had most likely happened in the exact moment they had left Rivendell – when another horse drew close to his, and even though he had heard the animal's approach for some time now, he was still slightly startled. Meneldir turned to face the newcomer, and wasn't overly surprised to see Dólion, his fellow commander.

Dólion held the same rank as he did, but he was – at least in his eyes – still very young. He had been promoted only six or seven decades ago, and was therefore still relatively inexperienced. He was – just like Captain Elvynd had been, Meneldir thought with a small stab of sadness – dark-haired and grey-eyed, like the stereotypical Noldo out of a book. He had always wanted to ask the other elf how he had come by his name, but he decided quickly that now would not be the time to ask, especially considering the other's serious face.

Meneldir raised an eyebrow at the other elf and gave him a quizzical look.  
"So, have you, too, figured out that this is a very bad idea?"

The younger elf looked back at him, unconsciously mirroring the action.  
"Yes, I have. About two seconds after Lord Elrohir told us about his plan."

"'Plan'," Meneldir muttered darkly. "That's actually a very nice way of putting it."

Dólion grinned slightly, even though the mirth didn't really reach his eyes. He was very aware of the fact that most of their warriors were shooting their surroundings wary looks, and he couldn't blame them, either. He knew that Lord Elrohir and Captain Isál had left both him and Meneldir in charge of the second group of warriors in order to make sure that they really got to Donrag safe and sound, but right now he didn't feel very confident about their chances of success. It wasn't that he didn't trust the older commander – he did, actually – but he simply had a bad feeling about this. Which wasn't surprising, really, considering their current general situation.

"You know that it's the only plan we could think of that offers us and Lord Erestor even a slim chance," the young commander said finally, sounding very much as if he wanted to convince himself of that fact. "There's nothing else we could have done."

"Oh, yes, I know that," Meneldir nodded his head. "That doesn't make it any better."

"I think I know what you are talking about," Dólion nodded as well.

There was nothing Meneldir could have said to that, except maybe try out a particularly interesting curse he had just invented and which involved Lord Elrohir, the people of Aberon and whichever Vala it was that hated them, and so the elven commander merely glared at a thoroughly innocent bird that hopped across the path in front of them. The bird was rather unimpressed, though, and so Meneldir turned his mind to other matters, first and foremost to the question of whether or not Lord Elrohir and the others had reached Donrag by now.

Dólion seemed to ask himself the same question, for he looked at the older elf, anxiety and concern barely hidden beneath a mask of stoic calm.  
"Do you … do you think they have arrived yet?"

Meneldir bit back an impatient reply and simply sighed softly, his eyes fixed on their surroundings. Their far too quiet surroundings, he thought a second later.  
"I do not know," he admitted finally. "But yes, I think so. It's not the getting-there part that troubles me, my friend."

"Oh?" Dólion asked, his eyebrows arching upwards without him even noticing. "Then what is it that is troubling you?"

Meneldir didn't answer immediately. He was still watching the path and the undergrowth next to it intently, as if he could pierce the bush with his eyes alone. They had crossed the river only about twenty minutes ago and were still travelling alongside it, so there were relatively few trees lining the road. Still, he thought suspiciously, feeling how his senses became more alert and cautious, it would be enough to hide something – or someone. Even quite a few somethings or someones.

"What it is that is troubling me?" he repeated softly. "A lot of things, Dólion. I do not worry about their ability to reach Donrag; Lord Elrohir and Captain Isál know what they are doing, and so does Lord Legolas. Besides, as unhappy as I am to admit this, wood-elves are resourceful and more than able to follow a path through a forest."

"They should be," the younger elf muttered. "They're living in one, after all."

Meneldir ignored the little proof of the friendly – and sometimes not so friendly – rivalry that existed between the Silvan and Noldorin Elves and continued.  
"No, I do believe that they'll get there. I just don't know what will happen then." He paused and smiled slightly as he saw the unmasked confusion in the other's eyes. "I hate to say this, but this … Gasur, was it? … and his lady are apparently not stupid. They will be expecting something like this."

"I am not so sure about that," the other commander shook his head, echoing the words Elrohir had spoken a few hours ago. "I don't think they are expecting us do something quite this … idiotic."

"I pray to the Valar that you are right, my friend," Meneldir retorted seriously. "I really do. If you are not, I am sure that we will be sitting in a cell sometime in the very near future." 

"You are a pessimist, _mellon nín_," Dólion declared, not even bothering to try and appear surprised.

"No," the fair-haired elf shook his head earnestly. "No, I'm not. I am an angry, annoyed, wet elf who has been on too many of the twins' 'hunting expeditions'."

The other elf grinned slightly. All of them, including Captain Isál, had come to the conclusion that this was the single wettest spot in all of Middle-earth, with the possible exception of the centre of the Sea of Rhûn.

"You do have a point," the young elf admitted thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, that _is _something to worry about."

"Oh, that's not all of it," Meneldir said casually, slowly turning his head to look his fellow commander in the eye. "There is another problem that worries me much more." Dólion looked at him questioningly, and so he elaborated, "It is too quiet. Far too quiet."

The younger elf looked about them, noticing for the first time that it _was _quiet. They hadn't had the time to send one of their men ahead as a vanguard, and therefore had to rely on their senses. Considering that they were elves, this was enough for most situations, but for a situation such as this one, when about nine out of ten men in the vicinity wanted to kill you, it was anything but.

"You are right," he admitted in a way that sounded very regretful and at the same time completely unsurprised. He watched while Meneldir calmly gestured the others to draw closer together. "What are your thoughts?" 

"My thoughts," Meneldir repeated calmly. "A good question. I think we're in trouble."

Once again, Dólion showed no signs of surprise. And why should he, after all, he asked himself darkly. He couldn't remember the last time anything had gone according to plan when he had went anywhere with one of the twins. It didn't matter that Lord Elrohir wasn't with them at the moment. In his experience, the Valar believed in guilt by association.

He was brought out of his thoughts rather rudely, namely by the fact that the elf in front of him was reining in his horse. So were all the others, and Dólion quickly saw why: There was a group riders in front of them, in the middle of the road, as if they were doing nothing more than having a nice little picnic of sorts. Considering that it was raining (just like it had been doing for the five days they had been here), it was a very odd sight indeed.

Dólion frowned at the group of humans in front of them, asking himself how they had sneaked up on them, only to realise that the answer was right in front of his eyes. They hadn't sneaked up on them. They had already been here; they had probably been here long before they had even left the town. They had been waiting for them, which meant that they were most likely not from Donrag. And _that _meant that they were from Aberon.

The young commander closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. May Eru damn all the humans around here, twice or thrice over if somehow possible!

Next to him, Meneldir was thinking just the same thing. His inner voice was speaking Dwarvish, though, in a vicious tone of voice that would have shocked even the Witch-king himself, while he was at the same time cursing himself. He didn't really know how, but _somehow _he should have known this would happen. He would only have needed to think of the worst case scenario and multiply it by ten, after all.

The fair-haired elf needed only a few seconds to take in all the facts. There was a group of more than a dozen armed humans blocking the path, and he would bet his life (and he probably was, too) that there were more in the undergrowth left and right of the road. Not good. Considering that, including Dólion and himself, they were only ten, they were outnumbered, no matter how many humans he couldn't see. Worse. Judging by the humans' expressions, they were not interested in small talk. Much worse.

Meneldir decided to ignore those particular revelations and looked at the humans, working hard to control the anger that was welling up inside of him. Couldn't they leave any of them alone for even a moment? 

"What do you want?" he asked without preamble in clipped, cold Westron.

One of the humans, a tall, muscular man with a swarthy face, raised a mocking eyebrow.  
"Many things, elf. For now, wealth and happiness for me and my men. What about you?"

Meneldir's anger went up another notch.  
"You're not very funny, human. You ask what I want? Let me tell you: To watch you and the men of your town die slowly and painfully. That would be really, _really_ nice."

"Oh, I know what you're talking about," the man nodded good-naturedly, as if they were two friends having a friendly discussion by a warm fire. "There are always things that you want and yet cannot have. I, for example, would like to kill the captain of that witch-lady. My employer, though, will not allow it. Sad, isn't it?"

"Very," the blond elf agreed coldly. "You have six seconds to move out of our way."

"Ah well, there we run into a little problem," the human retorted, managing to appear both remorseful and friendly. "I can't allow that." 

"You 'can't allow that', human?" Meneldir asked, sounding more incredulous and outraged than he really felt. The men were in the far better position, and both he and they knew that. "That is an interesting assessment of this situation. Interesting, but highly irrelevant. Move." 

"No," the man shook his head, but his patience seemed to diminish quickly. "I have a better idea, though. You tell your soldiers to hand over all your weapons and follow us and I promise you that you will not be harmed."

Meneldir raised an incredulous eyebrow and looked at the man as if he had just stated that he was in reality a dwarf that liked pink clothing.  
"I'm sure you do, human. Why would I do something like that?" 

"A good question!" the man exclaimed. Meneldir decided in an instant that, out of all the people he had met in Aberon, this was the one he despised most. "I have some answers for you, too. First," he paused a second, nodding at the elves in a friendly manner, "because it would be the most intelligent thing to do by far. Elves are supposed to be intelligent, aren't they? Second," the brown-haired man went on, "because you won't be able to get into the city of Donrag. You must have been insane to have ever believed otherwise."

Meneldir swallowed reflexively as he tried to hide the shock that washed over him. Just how did this man know about their … yes, he was saying it, about their plan? Had someone declared it openly in the market square? The man grinned at him, either because he had noticed his surprise or just because he liked grinned at random people in that particular way, and continued.

"Oh yes, my employer knows about your little 'mission'. Did you really think your departure – or that of your friends – would go unnoticed in as small a town as ours?"

"Who is your employer?" Dólion asked, his grey eyes dark and angry. "Hurag?"

"Ah, very good!" the man nodded. For a man who was quite obviously a soldier and armed to the teeth, he managed to look surprisingly like a schoolteacher. "One of them, that is. Had it been only him, though, you would already be dead. There were … other people involved in this decision."

Meneldir was about to open his mouth and say something very scathing and voice his suspicion that this someone was most like the dear Master Toran, Tibron's brother, but he stopped himself just in time. If these people thought that he didn't know anything about Aberon's politics, he would not inform them about their mistake.

"I don't believe you," he said instead, flatly. "If you spoke the truth, you would have captured our friends as well. You have not." 

"And how do you know that?" the man asked with a raised eyebrow. "I won't lie to you, though. You're right, we haven't. But _we _ don't even need to." He shook his head slightly and changed the topic. "Be that as it may. It seems that we have already reached the third reason. If you don't do what I say," he interrupted himself and raised a hand, "you will die. All of you."

Meneldir sighed inwardly, suddenly feeling more tired than angry. He didn't even have to turn his head to know what he would be seeing – as he had told Dólion earlier, he had some experience with this kind of thing, after all. He did turn his head in the end, more because he felt that it was his duty than because he wanted to survey his surroundings. Just as he had thought, there were men lining the path left and right of them, still half-hidden by the undergrowth. He could see Dólion and the rest do the same, and even while he was roughly calculating how badly they were outnumbered, he realised that he really didn't want to know.

A strange calm descended on him then, a calm he knew only too well. He had felt it often in the past, mostly when he had been in some sort of battle, doing his best to avoid being killed. It was accompanied by the sense that time had slowed down, enabling him to look at his situation closely and from a curiously removed, objective position.

One, they were outnumbered and, quite frankly, outmanoeuvred. They could only hope to escape by riding back the way they had come, which was completely impossible in face of their current position. Before they would have even turned their horses, they would have been hit half a dozen arrows and/or crossbow bolts – each, that was. His warriors were good, surely, good enough so that they could contend with any others in Lord Elrond's service, but they weren't that good. No one was, elf or no elf. 

Two, they knew about their – admittedly harebrained – plan. Still, no matter how harebrained it was, there was no reason why these people should just manage to guess it. As Dólion had said earlier, it was far too idiotic for that to happen. That either meant that Tibron had betrayed them – a possibility that he didn't even want to contemplate, because that would mean that Estel had, at best, been captured – or it meant that someone else had realised what they were up to and had informed Hurag.

Three … ah, whom was he trying to kid, he thought darkly. He didn't need a third reason, the two he had were already more than enough. The humans knew what they were planning, and there was nothing he could do to stop them without getting them all killed. He could not allow that, and no matter what happened, they wouldn't be helping Lord Elrohir and the others if they were all dead.

And no matter how he wanted to see these men all dead, he would not risk the lives of his men in such a manner.

"What kind of assurance do I have that you will honour your promise?" he asked finally. "How do I know that you will not kill us if we do as you ask?"

"You don't," the man simply said, with a grin Meneldir would have loved to wipe off his face. "You will have to trust my word." The fair-haired elf snorted softly, but the human ignored it. "Besides, elf, do you not think that you would already be dead if my employer wanted you to be?" 

There was nothing to be said to that, not really, and so the elven commander just squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Fighting against all his instincts that told him that surrendering was not a good idea, he slowly raised a hand and motioned his men to do as they were told. It was a testament to their training that the warriors did not hesitate, even though they were glaring at the men in a way that made the humans very glad that looks could in fact not kill.

It took the men a disconcertingly short time to search them and collect all their weapons, even though Meneldir suspected that they usually searched dead people for valuables. In only a few minutes the elves had been disarmed, and another few minutes later the men had drawn a tight circle around them. Meneldir had to force himself not to think about a pack of wolves that were closing in on their prey.

"What now?" he asked, not even bothering to try and hide the hatred in his voice. "Are you going to bind us, so that we may not escape your men?"

If there was a way to say such a single sentence in an utterly hateful tone of voice full of loathing and disdain, the blond elf had found it. The leader of the men ignored it, however, and once again smiled at him in that infuriating way. 

"No, elf, I don't think we have to do that." He gave two of his men a quick sign, and before the fair-haired commander really knew what was happening, one of them had grasped the bridle of his horse. Meneldir was already moving to stop him when the second one raised his sword and pointed it very unwaveringly at the centre of the elf's chest. Cursing the fates and the men in front of him, he stilled, reluctantly allowing the men to separate him from his companions. "See," the leader went on, the friendly smile still adorning his face, "I figure that all I have to do to ensure your companions' co-operation is taking you away from them. I don't think they will try anything if they know that you will be the one who has to answer for their actions, hm?"

"What happened to 'you will not be harmed'?" the elven commander asked scathingly, but did not try to resist as the two men tied his wrists in front of him and positioned themselves to both sides of him. How they managed it without being killed by the glares the rest of the elves directed at them was anyone's guess.

"Don't be foolish," the man shrugged casually. "'Harmed' is a very general term." He turned around and nodded at a slightly younger man. "We are leaving. Take point, and make sure that no one sees us."

The young man nodded and spurred his horse on, making his way over to the head of the column. At first, it appeared as if the elven warriors would not obey the men's unvoiced instructions, but then Dólion softly ordered them to follow the humans. He did not need to look at the older commander to know that he didn't want them to risk their lives for his, but he would be damned if he allowed him to commit suicide for them. There was no way they could reach him before one of the humans put a dagger against Meneldir's throat.

Meneldir watched how his men reluctantly began to urge on their horses, and he turned back to the dark-haired human, doing his best to project a nonchalant air.  
"Where are we going?"

"To a safe place," the man answered with a broad grin. "Somewhere where you'll be out of the way until all this is over. Then … we'll see."

"Where – are – you – taking – my – men?" the blond elf repeated, unperturbed and as coldly as he could.

The man looked at him for a second before he raised an eyebrow ever so slightly and began to spur on his horse.  
"You don't have anything against dark, enclosed spaces and bats, do you?"

Before Meneldir could say anything, the man was gone, leaving him alone with his two guards who were riding next to him, as expressionless and silent as a pair of statues. The elf looked after him for a second, but then he shook his head inwardly and began to scrutinise his guards and the rest of their surroundings, scolding himself for allowing that man to anger him thus. 

A dark, enclosed space, he mused while they were riding back the way they had come. A dark, enclosed space that housed bats and lay in the direction of Aberon. For a second, the elf was truly puzzled, but then the answer hit him with the force of a physical blow: The salt-mines. It was the only possible location he could think of; it was also far enough from the town to ensure that they wouldn't be seen. It was not really a realisation he treasured, and he had to force his thoughts away from the vision of small, dark rooms and narrow tunnels without light or air or hope.

No matter what these people apparently thought, it would need more than a little darkness to stop his men and him. That being as it was, he couldn't help but worry, about his men and Lord Elrohir's group that was right now walking into a trap.   
**  
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Elrohir frowned at the completely innocent tree in front of him, something that didn't impress it in the slightest. How he would have known if the tree had been impressed he didn't really know, but that was a completely different problem.

There was nothing wrong with the tree of course, especially since it sheltered them from prying eyes and was, in short, the only thing that was standing between them and discovery, but that, too, was unimportant. What was important was that he didn't like this, not one bit.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Legolas; he trusted him with his life and the lives of his family, and that said it all, at least in his opinion. No, he did trust the other elf. The wood-elf was a good, loyal, intelligent and brave person, and had been his friend for many long years. The problem was that he and Aragorn were completely unable to formulate a plan that actually worked in the way it was meant to. Only once or twice in the time he had known him had the other elf managed to come up with a plan that worked, and the last time had been only a hundred or a hundred and twenty years ago. Considering that he had known the fair-haired elf for more than two thousand years, he wasn't due to come up with a workable plan for at least another eight hundred years.

Another problem was that he hadn't been able to think of a better plan himself. If he had, he would never have gone along with this. But since he hadn't, the dark-haired twin concluded darkly, they were here, in front of Legolas' less-guarded-than-the-others gate. At least that bit was true, though. There were indeed no signs of any guards whatsoever, and the last time a patrol had come by here, the men had only stopped for a few minutes on top of the ramparts before they had taken up their shields and had moved on. Dusk had begun to settle over the city, and nothing even resembling a lamp or torch had been lit in the vicinity.

The gate was indeed unguarded. Everything was quiet, dark, and no one seemed to pay it – or them – any attention. It was the perfect place to sneak into the city.

It was far, far too easy.

Elrohir frowned again (and, this time, judging by the somewhat agitated ruffling of its leaves, the tree might have been faintly impressed). Despite – or maybe because of – the fact that their plan was truly … simple, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He didn't know if it was a kind of foreboding, of the sort that his father had from time to time, or if it was simply his common sense resurfacing, but he just knew that something was going to happen. Something he – or the rest – wouldn't enjoy in the slightest.

"So?" a voice asked next to him. "What do you think?" 

The elven twin did his best not to jump, very aware of the fact that Isál and his men were just behind him and that elf lords did not jump with fright in front of their warriors. Well, maybe they did, but then they had to have at least a very good reason, like a sudden apparition of the Valar, a direct order from Eru Ilúvatar or one of his father's _looks_. Suddenly the fervent wish that his father were indeed here rose inside of him, but he pushed it aside and turned around, coming face to face with Legolas. The other elf's face was bruised and drawn, and he looked somewhat lop-sided because of the thick bandage that covered his left arm and shoulder.

How he had managed to ride here, stealthily make his way to this little copse of trees and then sneak up on him in the condition he was in, Elrohir couldn't even begin to fathom.

"It looks … all right," he finally said carefully.

Next to him, Legolas raised an eyebrow, something that made him look like a bruised, very inquisitive and curious owl.  
"Yes, it does," he agreed in a similar tone of voice. "I didn't ask what it looked like, though. I asked what you thought."

Elrohir sighed and lowered his voice, knowing that it wouldn't matter. The warriors behind them would hear every word, and even though he would never even think about lying to them or deceiving them about how risky the situation was, he wasn't exactly fond of displaying weakness and doubts in front of his men.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked. Legolas only nodded solemnly, causing Elrohir to sigh once again. "I think that this is far too easy."

The fair-haired elf opened his mouth, most likely to protest, but then he closed it again without having said a word. His drawn face became even more serious, and he turned to look at the thick, forbidding wall and the narrow gate no more than three or four hundred yards away with a glare that would have made Sauron proud.

"Yes," he agreed softly. "Yes, it is. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I would be far happier if we could see some guards. Or … _ someone_."

"I know," Elrohir nodded. "I would actually be glad if a guard decided to do his duty. Even a single one would be welcome."

"I agree," Legolas nodded as well. "Still, I don't think anyone will do us that kind of favour. As you said earlier, my friend, these are your men, and this is therefore your mission and your responsibility. What do you intend to do?"

That was indeed a very good question, Elrohir admitted. Now that he thought about it, he didn't have the slightest idea. On the one hand, Legolas' plan was the only one they had been able to come up with, and therefore the only one that promised some sort of success. On the other hand... Elrohir sighed inwardly. He hadn't lied to Aragorn when he had said that he would do almost anything to save Erestor, except risk the lives of his warriors in an irresponsible manner. And that was the problem.

He remained silent for long moments, weighing his options in his mind, before he took a deep breath and turned around, motioning Isál to come closer.  
"What do you think, Captain?"

Isál looked very much as if he had just bitten into something very sour and thoroughly distasteful, but he obediently stepped next to them and let his gaze wander over the wall before he answered.

"I am afraid I have to agree with you, my lord. This is looking far too easy." He hesitated for a moment before he added slowly, "However, I do not see any other options." The other two elves looked at him, and so he elaborated. "We can sit here all night and wonder if this is a trap or not. Personally, I would be more than happy to do just that, but I don't think Lord Erestor has that much time."

"No, he hasn't," Legolas affirmed quietly. "He has no time at all."

Elrohir still didn't say anything, but then he finally raised his head and looked at the blond elf next to him, an unreadable expression on his face.  
"Tell me more about the door. How do we get into the town?" 

Legolas knew he had won then, but he didn't feel happy in the slightest. He didn't have to be foresighted like his friend and his family to know that there was something wrong here. He was old enough and had seen enough to know that anything that looked as if it was too good to be true usually was, too.

"It's not the original door," he began. "It's only a substitute. In comparison with the others I have seen, it's only half as thick and not nearly as well-made. There are still some marks at the wall next to the hinges that I couldn't identify; I guess there was an accident of some kind that ripped the old door clean off its hinges. It must have happened recently; they simply didn't have enough time to fashion a new one yet. They just took the next door they could find that fitted the opening."

"That fits," Elrohir nodded calmly. "Considering the fact that Aberon and Donrag are practically at war, it would have been suicide to leave a gate open and unprotected."

"Pardon me, my lords, but am I the only one who thinks that this doesn't make any sense?" Isál asked. "Imagine you are in their situation. You have a gate whose door is just an ill-fitting substitute. You are at war with your neighbour and expecting them to come knocking at said gate any second. What would be the last thing you would do?"

"Leave it unguarded," Elrohir replied tensely. "Unless you wanted not to attract any attention, of course. They could be hoping that no one will notice that this part of the wall is vulnerable if they pretend nothing is wrong. They must have the next door ready, or almost ready at least. What are the chances of anything happening now?"

"They believe us to be dead," Legolas nodded. "It's possible."

"Yes, it is," Isál agreed in a way that very clearly conveyed his doubts about that. "But, as I said, we do not have any other choice. So, technically speaking, it is only a wooden door?"

"Precisely," Legolas nodded. "With a few bars and a lock. Locks can be picked."

"You would know," Elrohir commented softly, an amused sparkle in his eyes.

"I didn't pick the lock," the other elf protested with a faint smile. "It was … Aragorn. Yes, it was him. And who taught him such a disreputable skill, _mellon nín_?"

"Glorfindel," Elrohir answered promptly. "And it so happens that I know the person who taught him."

He looked at Isál who nodded back at him before he turned around and softly called a name.  
"Annorathil!"

A few seconds later an elf stepped up to them, giving his superiors and the prince a respectful bow. He had dark hair that looked even darker because it was – like their surroundings – rather wet, and his eyes that were somewhere between blue and green were guarded and carefully expressionless.   
"My lords. Your Highness."

"Annorathil," Elrohir greeted the dark-haired elf with a smile. It was a smile that had caused countless elves and a fair share of _dúnedain _to start looking for cover. "It is most fortunate that you are here. How long do you think it would take you to open that lock over there?"

The elf in front of him took half a step forward and looked at the wooden gate, a calculating expression on his face.  
"This lock? A minute, and that only because I would take care to work soundlessly. Are there any bars?"

"Yes," Legolas nodded, amused. This was the first elf he had ever met who behaved a lot like some of the less reputable humans he had met in Aragorn's company. Not that he or the young ranger would ever admit that to anyone, especially not to their fathers. "Three or four, I believe. The door, however, is badly made. I believe that, with the right tools, they can be lifted from the outside."

"Say no more, my lord," the elf told him with something that looked suspiciously like a grin. "It won't be a problem."

"Then it is settled," Elrohir said with finality. He turned around to the rest of the men. "Make your way over to the wall. As soon as Annorathil has opened the door, we will enter the city. Remember what Captain Isál has told you; no one goes anywhere alone. Keep together and follow us. Should anyone spot you, make sure that they do not alarm anyone else. Do what you have to do."

He didn't have to elaborate, and the warriors nodded solemnly. None of them were happy that they might be forced to kill a human (or even more than one), but none was too dismayed either. Those who helped capture or kill one of their own could hardly expect them to show them sympathy – or mercy, for that matter.

"One more thing," Elrohir went on. "Most of you will have realised that, from an objective point of view, this is looking too easy. We go on anyway because we don't have any other options, but be wary. It may very well be a trap. Should that be the case, try your best to get out of the city and back to Aberon. Find Commander Meneldir and the others, take my brother and make your way back home. Understood?"

Nine solemn nods were his only answer. Elrohir looked at them for a few more seconds before he, too, inclined his head and turned back around. Without another word he began to make his way over to the wall, almost blending into the darkness with his dark hair and grey cloak. The warriors began to follow him, moving carefully and slowly in pairs or alone, but before Annorathil could turn to leave as well, Legolas reached out with his uninjured arm and held him back.

"Did you really teach Lord Glorfindel how to pick locks?" 

The other elf smiled.  
"Yes, my lord, I did. And, if I may say so, it took me quite a while."

Before Legolas could ask or say anything else, the dark-haired elf was gone, and Legolas, too, began to make his way over to the gate. He had to use all his remaining energy to concentrate in order to keep upright, but even despite the knowledge that the only thing keeping him mobile and conscious was what had to be the largest amount of adrenaline ever discovered in any intelligent life form, he had to smile, too. If they ever got out of this alive, he would have to have a little talk with Lord Glorfindel. Who'd ever have thought that there was something the balrog-slayer hadn't learned immediately?

He was still pondering this when he reached the gate, but he soon had to abandon the train of thought. Annorathil was indeed as skilled as he had claimed to be, and in less than a minute he had opened the lock. It took a few more minutes to get rid of the bars, but in the end they, too, were out of the way, causing the gate to open with a low, creaking sound. For a few seconds, nobody moved, but then Isál reached out and gave the door a push so that it swung open completely.

Elrohir stared at the dark, rectangular opening in front of him, fervently wishing that his bad feeling would just leave him alone. It did no such thing, however, and stayed right where it was, namely hovering at the back of his mind like a dark, malicious cloud. Sighing inwardly and wrenching his thoughts away from that particular topic, the elven twin nodded at his captain. Isál nodded back and motioned at four of his warriors who swiftly moved over the threshold, walking as silently as wraiths.

A few seconds later all of them were in the city, and Legolas had to fight a distinct sense of déjà vu. Even though he knew that the majority of Donrag's inhabitants were most likely normal people and nothing like the 'Fox', he still felt as if a dark cloud had enveloped him, a dark cloud of hate and fear and malice. Realising that he was rambling and that it wouldn't help any of them, he forced himself to concentrate on the situation at hand and set one foot in front of the other. As it turned out, doing both things at the same time wasn't all that easy.

He wouldn't have needed to concern himself with that, though. They had almost reached the warehouse where they had intended to wait for Meneldir and the rest of their group – who should, after all, arrive in less than an hour – when Legolas walked into the elf in front of him, who turned out to be Elrohir. Under any other circumstances, the mere fact that he had _ walked into _someone would have filled him with concern and quite a bit of incredulous self-contempt, but right now he was just surprised that it hadn't happened earlier.

Before he could even ask what was wrong, a steely hand grasped his forearm and pushed him back.  
"Back!" Elrohir hissed at him. "Everybody, back!"

Behind him, Legolas could sense the elves begin to obey their lord's order, but it was already too late. From one second to the next, their surroundings were bathed in blinding white light, and he reflexively closed his eyes against its harsh glare. A small part of him commented softly that it was the kind of light you got when you uncovered about a dozen or more bright oil lamps, but the rest of him was very busy trying to get rid of the black dots he could see behind his closed eyelids. In such situations elven eyesight was in fact a liability, he thought darkly.

When he felt that it was safe to do so, he slowly opened his eyes again – only to have to resist the urge to close them again a second later. While he was staring at the now very brightly lit street, he found the time to notice that he had been right – at least partly. He had been right about the oil lamps, even though there were quite a bit more than a dozen.

Apart from the lamps, there were also quite a few soldiers present, all clad in Acalith's livery. The mere sight of them caused cold shivers to run down the prince's back, and only with a supreme effort he could stop himself from losing himself in dark, painful memories. The men were everywhere: Blocking the street in front of them, coming out of the houses right and left of them, on the roofs of some of the buildings and, of course, behind them. They were armed to the teeth, too, with swords and bows or crossbows, but that was to be expected.

Legolas stopped looking with an inward headshake of disgust. He had tried to gauge the soldiers' number, and had stopped when he realised that they were hopelessly outnumbered. Elrohir had, apparently, just come to the same conclusion, for he slowly turned his head to look at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

"That's a lot of soldiers," he said evenly in Sindarin. 

"That's an awful lot of soldiers," Legolas agreed soberly. 

Elrohir couldn't have put it better himself, and even while he was still surveying their situation, he saw that fighting was out of the question. He had no doubts whatsoever that they would take quite a few of these men with them, but that would be about it. They didn't have a chance, not surrounded like this. With an inner sigh of both frustration and anger he slowly and carefully raised a hand and turned to Isál, who, like the rest of the warriors, had drawn his sword and was staring at the humans with an expression that nobody could have called anything but murderous. 

"Lower your weapons," he told the captain in Westron so that the men would understand what he was saying. "All of you. Do it."

Even though it was clear that none of the warriors liked that particular order, they obeyed it nonetheless. Slowly and reluctantly swords were sheathed and bows put down, even though the dark glares that the elves were shooting the soldiers did not diminish. Most of the men did their best to avoid their looks, but only a few of them looked truly bothered. Most curious, a small part of Elrohir thought darkly; most humans couldn't stand an elven glare for longer than a few seconds. It appeared that Legolas had been right and that the insane captain of these people was quite intimidating, too.

'Speak of a demon and it will appear,' the elf thought sarcastically a second later as the soldiers straightened up as one, even though their eyes didn't leave the elves. For a second, Elrohir was confused, but then he realised that a group of men had appeared on a balcony to their right. They wore the same armour as the rest of the men, but he didn't have to see Legolas stiffen next to him to know who the brown-haired man wearing the leather bracers and the superior sneer was.

The twin's eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at the man. A part of him was busy cursing the human in all the languages he knew (and, thanks to his father's lessons, he knew quite a few), but the rest of him was contemplating the far more interesting question of how in the name of Elbereth herself the humans had found out what they were planning. Had Tibron betrayed them after all? If yes, what had happened to Aragorn? Even if Tibron hadn't, he had thought that someone else in Aberon might realise what they were doing, but how had these people here found out about it so quickly? They would have seen it if someone had ridden to Donrag in the last few hours, wouldn't they?

As if the 'Fox' had read his thoughts, the man took a step forward until he touched the wooden balustrade that encircled the small space. With a grin that awoke in Elrohir very unambiguous homicidal urges, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small strip of paper that looked as if it had been coiled up tightly. Even despite the distance that lay between them, Elrohir could see that it had to be some kind of message, for even though he couldn't read them, he could make out small letters that looked as if they had been written by a professional scribe.

"Carrier pigeons," the man said in a low tone of voice that was still clearly audible. He grinned at the furious elves below him as he raised the small strip of parchment mockingly. "Wonderful things, aren't they?" 

Elrohir's eyes narrowed even further. Why hadn't he thought of that? How else would Hurag keep in touch with "his" lady, by tying letters to rocks and throwing them over the wall in the general direction of Acalith's house? What in the name of the One had he been _thinking_!

Pushing his worry and fear for his human brother to the side as well as what could be swiftly growing panic, he reminded himself that there was a positive side, too.

He had been right. It _had _been far too easy.   
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Torel was beginning to suspect that he would have spared himself, his family and the entire population of Aberon a great deal of trouble, not to mention danger, if he had just minded his own business and let the ranger and the elf die south of the city. It would not have been a nice thing to do, but an understandable one – a very understandable one. 

The young man shook his head slightly a moment later, admitting to himself that he didn't really mean what he'd just thought. He hadn't spoken much with the blond elf – or his dark-haired friends, for that matter – but he had spent some time with the ranger. Even though he could be very intimidating (even though he didn't seem to notice it himself from time to time), he was friendly, quick-witted and … well, _fun_.

The latter description was something with which the man in front of him would most certainly not have agreed, at least judging from the dark expression he wore. Next to him, Vonar was wearing a rather similar expression, and once again Torel thanked all the Gods who were interested in listening that it was Vonar who had to deal with this, not him. Since his uncle had left for the council meeting some time ago, Vonar was the one the servants came to with questions or problems since he was the eldest son and his mother, the mistress of the house, was absent. Torel sobered at that thought. His uncle had sent his wife to her sister who was living outside the city until this was all over, and even though he agreed with his uncle's decision whole-heartedly, he couldn't help but feel that this was a very clear sign of how bad things really were at the moment. 

Tibron had wanted to send Vonar away with his mother, but his cousin had steadfastly refused to go anywhere. In the end, and against his wife's will, Tibron had relented, mostly because he knew that he wouldn't be able to deal with all this on his own. Besides, no one would begin to ask questions if his aunt decided to visit her sister. If Vonar went with her, however, it would look suspicious.

And, as Tibron had told them very insistently before he had left for the meeting, they couldn't afford to present anything but the picture of absolute, complete normalcy.

Which was, of course, Torel thought amusedly, just what was giving Vonar so much trouble. Even though he was older than his cousin and had received the order to help him keep up the façade his uncle had carefully constructed over the past few days, Torel made no move to try and help Vonar. If he had learned one thing over the last two days, it was never to interrupt Giras when he was in the middle of one of his rants.

"…he doesn't know what he is doing, Master Vonar! He won't listen to anything I say, anything at all! Are you sure he really understands what we are saying? Perhaps he only understands that Elvish language his companions speak."

Vonar took a deep breath that was obviously meant to be calming. Without him even noticing, one of his hands reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he had adopted from his father in times when he was tired, exasperated or beginning to suffer from a headache.

"You have talked with him before, Giras," the young man tried to appeal to the other's common sense. He might as well have tried to get a horde of orcs in touch with their feminine sides, Torel thought somewhat gleefully. It was very clear that Giras had throw reason and common sense out of the window a long time ago. "You have seen that he knows what you are saying," the curly-haired youth went on. "He understands Common well enough."

"He could have fooled me," the other man growled. "I know that the master ordered me to keep an eye on him, but I give up! For all I care, the ranger can go hang!"

"Come now, Giras," Torel said with exaggerated cheerfulness, giving in to his cousin's pleading looks. "You don't mean that."

The look that the other gave him convinced him instantly that yes, he _did _mean it, and Giras narrowed his eyes at the two younger men as if they were responsible for his situation.  
"As I said, young sirs, I give up. My brother told me that he could use my help in the tavern. If you want to keep that young fool in bed and generally endure his dour mood, go ahead. Should Master Tibron be displeased with my actions on his return, I shall gladly endure his wrath. Anything is better than that … that ranger!"

With a last, dark look at the door down the hall the man gave them a quick nod and whirled around, grumbling under his breath about arrogant, foolhardy, impertinent boys and all the things that should be done to them to correct those particular character flaws. A moment later he was gone, and only now Torel allowed himself to relax the iron control he'd had over his facial muscles. He wasn't entirely sure about it, of course, because he simply didn't know Giras well enough, but he suspected that the man would have torn off his head with his bare hands if he had started grinning. 

Not even trying to hide his amused grin, he turned to his cousin with a raised eyebrow.  
"Aren't you going to stop him?"

Vonar looked at him as if he had just asked him if he wanted to go and tell Hurag about everything they had done lately.  
"Are you mad?" the younger boy demanded to know. "If you want to risk life and limb, go ahead. I know Giras well enough to know that nothing, not even one of my father's orders, is going to convince him to change his mind. He isn't a real healer, and doesn't view it as his duty to put up with recalcitrant patients. Wild horses couldn't get him back in there."

'There' was, of course, the door just down the hallway and to the right. It was the door that led to the room of the young ranger, who had just managed to infuriate Giras to a degree and in a manner that Torel found very impressive.

"The elves warned us," he finally offered rather lamely. "They said that he would be … what was that word they were using? … ah yes, 'difficult'."

"Difficult just might be the understatement of the century," Vonar commented sourly. "Giras is a hot-tempered man and quick to anger, I'll admit that, but to get him _this _mad isn't easy, trust me. He really must have been … _difficult_."

"Wouldn't you be?" Torel asked evenly. "With your friends leaving for Donrag, wouldn't you be worried and disappointed and short-tempered? I know I would."

"I probably would, too," Vonar admitted after a short moment of silence. "But that doesn't mean that we can stand here and do nothing. You heard what my father said. No one must suspect what is really going on. We have to go in there and make sure that he is all right and doesn't do anything stupid."

Torel would have liked to challenge his cousin's claim, but found that he could not. He took a deep breath as well and straightened his shoulders, turning slightly to look at the closed door no more than a few yards away from them. The candles that were burning in the candlesticks to their left and right were enough to illuminate the gloomy corridor, and he could therefore see that it was a perfectly normal wooden door. 'Why then,' a small voice asked wryly, 'would you rather face five soldiers of Donrag than go in there?'

"Well," Vonar began next to him, eyeing the door as if he expected it to grow arms and reach for him any second, "I do believe you are right, dear cousin. After you."

"After me?" Torel exclaimed, looking at the younger boy with mock indignation. "Why after me? With Uncle Tibron gone, you are in charge here, ridiculous as it may sound."

Vonar ignored his cousin's words and resorted to more childish measures. He grinned crookedly at him and gave him a none too gentle push.  
"Because you're older. Besides, let's not forget that this is all _your _fault. You owe me."

"Not this much, little one," Torel shook his head, but allowed Vonar to push him forward. His cousin – who was glaring darkly at him for using that particular endearment – was the younger one, and he would do anything to protect him. Even if it meant having to put up with an ill-tempered ranger.

"Oh yes, exactly this much," Vonar shook his head. "And now knock."

Torel grumbled something under his breath, but moved to obey. He was half-heartedly contemplating what he would do to Vonar (when and if all of them survived all this, that was) when the ranger's voice asked them to enter, and so he pushed all such thoughts to the side and opened the door. The room was slightly brighter than the hallway, with a fire burning merrily in the hearth and several lit lamps that were positioned next to the bed and in little niches in the walls, and so it took Torel's eyes a few seconds to get used to the additional light. When he did, though, all he could do was to try and hide the grin that wanted to spread over his face. 

"I wouldn't do that it if I were you," Vonar announced next to him while he was still trying to think of something to say. "Giras will have a fit, and don't think that I will be willing – or able – to prevent him from strangling you. My father is not here at the moment, so there is no one who could stop him."

The young man he was addressing and who was right now sitting on the edge of his bed, clad in a pair of breeches and a light shirt and clearly preparing to leave the same, raised an eyebrow and looked at them evenly.  
"What he doesn't know can't hurt him."

"Quite right," Torel nodded and took a step forward. The ranger's silver-grey eyes followed his every movement, and he had to force himself to remain calm. The other man had a disconcerting, intense way of surveying situations and people that, quite frankly, caused an uneasy shiver to run down his back. Beside, he still hadn't forgotten that he had threatened to cut his throat not too long ago. "But there's more. If you leave this house, you will be seen. If you are seen, someone will tell Hurag. If someone tells Hurag, he will send his men to apprehend or kill you." The brown-haired youth raised an eyebrow as well. "I don't really think I have to continue, do I?"

"They tried to kill me before," Aragorn shrugged, obviously unimpressed. "They are welcome to try again."

"Oh, they would," Torel nodded seriously. "Trust me on this, Master Ranger. They would. And this time, they just might succeed."

"We understand your motives, Strider," Vonar assured the ranger quickly. He, too, hadn't forgotten that this man could be very dangerous if he put his mind to it. "But you must understand my father's, too. Until your friends return, you must not be seen. If they manage to achieve what they hope and return with your friend, we have something we can use against Hurag and his supporters. The council will believe an elf lord if my father speaks for him, and he will. Right now, however, no one knows you're alive, and if we don't keep it that way, we're all dead. There is nothing we can do to protect you except make sure that no one knows you are here. You are not well, and even if your friends were still here, you couldn't help them." 

Aragorn's eyes darkened slightly, but more because he was angry at himself than angry at Tibron's son and his cousin. The two of them were right, of course, which wasn't exactly something he liked to admit to himself.

"You are right," he said softly. "My companions and I owe you and your father our gratitude. Helping us in the first place was a brave thing to do, not to mention allowing me to stay here. I promise you that I will do nothing that puts your family at risk."

"We had never thought you would," Torel assured him, grinning inwardly. Listening to his father negotiate all these years was finally beginning to pay off.

Aragorn mumbled something under his breath that sounded quite a lot like "Of course not" which the two younger men ignored. For a moment it was silent, and the ranger surveyed the two of them closely. He hadn't seen them together since that night in the woods next to the road, and back then he hadn't exactly been able to do much than try his best to stay on his feet – and as everybody knew, he hadn't even managed to do that. 

Standing next to each other, it was obvious that they were related, and they could even have been brothers. Vonar was a year or two younger, but he was already as tall as his cousin. Both of them had brown, curly hair that tended to fall into their eyes, and were right now staring at him with wide eyes, as if they were half-expecting him to jump up and try to eat them. That look reminded him of something, and with a slightly guilty feeling he looked at the older of the two, looking for and finding the red, already healing cut on his throat.

"I am sorry," Aragorn said seriously. "I did not mean to harm you."

Torel frowned, not knowing what the ranger was talking about, but then he understood, one of his hands reaching up to touch the healing cut.   
"It's all right," he said automatically. "You were only protecting your friend."

"Yes, I was," Aragorn nodded emotionlessly. "But I should have taken the time to find out your intentions before I acted. I … I could have killed you."

Torel opened his mouth, about to deny the other's words, but he remained silent, realising that it would be a lie. The ranger was right, after all.  
"Would you have killed us?" he asked instead. "If you hadn't believed us?"

The dark-haired ranger simply looked at him, grey eyes very, very serious. Torel smiled tensely and swallowed, wondering why he had even asked.  
"Yes," he said softly. "So I'd thought."

"Do you believe us now?" Vonar asked, his head cocked to the side and his eyes not leaving Aragorn's face.

The young ranger didn't answer immediately and just looked at them, still perched on the edge of his bed. With his bandaged head and arm and the bruises and abrasions covering his fever-flushed face, he looked like a rather big and very plucked hatchling about to leave the nest for the first time. A moment later he began to smile, and suddenly Torel couldn't help but wonder when and how he could ever have thought this young man dangerous who couldn't be much older than he.

"Of course I do," Aragorn answered, as if that was the only answer that made sense. Who knew, Torel thought, maybe it was, too. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have let my brother and friends go, nor would they have left me."

It was strange to hear a human refer to an elf as his brother, but Torel pushed his puzzlement aside. Whom the ranger called or considered what was none of his business, nor anyone else's.  
"I am glad to hear that," he said sincerely. "Now that we've settled that: What do we have to do to convince you not to try to get up? I would rather not chance Giras' wrath."

"Me neither," Vonar agreed. "He was quite … aggravated the last time we saw him."

"I haven't got the faintest idea why," Aragorn said with an innocent smile that was far too bright to look sincere. He looked at the two young men in front of him, his smile widening. "To answer you question: I can offer you a deal. If you sit down and tell me more about your town, I will promise to stay in bed – even though I'm perfectly all right."

The two cousins traded a wry look while they pulled the two armchairs that stood along the wall closer to the bed.  
"Your friends warned us," Torel told Aragorn seriously while he was tugging at his rather uncooperative armchair. "They told us that you could have a knife sticking out of your head and would still claim to be 'perfectly all right'."

"A gross exaggeration," Aragorn shook his head mournfully, once again leaning back into the pillows at his back. He was almost glad that he didn't have to try to get up; he didn't really believe that he would make it very far. He could have dealt with his wounds – or so he thought – but that damned illness was sapping what strength he had still left. "Do not believe everything they tell you. They can be devious." 

"They told us you would say that," Vonar grinned at him. "They also told us not to believe a single word. Even if they hadn't, I wouldn't believe you." When Aragorn raised an eyebrow, he added wryly, "Have you looked in a mirror lately, ranger?"

Aragorn ignored the question, deciding to give up gracefully while he still could. It was clear that Elrohir, Legolas and the others had spread all kinds of rumours about him (which were, of course, not true at all); there was almost no chance that he would be able to convince anyone that he was "fine", "all right", or any other interpretations of the term "healthy".

"Where is your father?" he asked the younger of the two, trying to change the topic. He wanted to ask if they had heard anything from Elrohir, Legolas and the others, but he knew that they hadn't. If they had, they would have told him, so actually asking would only serve to prove his anxiety. "Has something happened?"

"No, don't worry," Vonar hurried to reassure the ranger. "Nothing has happened. Today the council has its last session for several days. My father is one of the leading members of our guild, and there are several rather important issues to discuss. If he hadn't gone, someone would surely have started to ask questions."

"I see," Aragorn nodded, feeling reassured. "Why is it the last session for several days?"

"Because of the holidays, of course," Vonar answered in the tone of voice of child who had been asked to explain a most obvious thing. "Why else?" Aragorn only looked at him, and a moment later he blushed fiercely. "Oh, I didn't mean to cause offence! Forgive me, Master Ranger; I forgot that you do not know our customs."

"There is nothing to forgive," Aragorn shook his head minutely, trying to aggravate his slowly building headache as little as possible. "What holiday is it you are celebrating?"

Torel smiled slightly.  
"To explain it will take some time."

Aragorn raised his undamaged arm and motioned at his surroundings.  
"I am not going anywhere, or so it would seem. If you, however, have someplace to be…?"

"No," Vonar shook his head. "Everything is under control in the tavern, and our only task is it to make sure that no one finds out about you. We have time, at least until my father returns."

The dark-haired ranger nodded and leaned back, an eager expression on his face, and Torel shook his head ever so slightly. He didn't think that he would ever understand this man.

"Every year, in the first week of _Lótessë, _ we celebrate the Feast of Remembrance, to honour the Gods' grace and mercy and to thank them for their kindness. It's always at the beginning of the month, and starts on the evening of the day before the first market day. It goes on for three days, and no official functions of any kind are allowed. Most shops are closed, except for the taverns and inns, of course. It is one of our most important and popular holidays, and everybody is always looking forward to it. Not only we in the city celebrate it; most of those who have a house or farmstead outside of the city walls are coming here, too. Everybody who can be here, will be here. The town is already packed, and it's almost impossible to get anywhere."

"I see," Aragorn nodded, interested. "What is it you are commemorating?"

"As I said, we are praising the Gods' kindness," Torel told him seriously. "You know of the ancient city of Tharbad?" Aragorn nodded. "Then I don't have to tell you what happened to it. After it was destroyed nearly 45 years ago, the survivors travelled north, having sworn that they would never again settle in that cursed place. About two-thirds joined the inhabitants of Donrag, which was a very small settlement back then, but the rest came here. They started the tradition when they thanked the Gods for their survival with a great feast after their arrival in our town. In the following years it began to take the forms it has now."

"That's why they people from Donrag hate us," Vonar threw in. "They can't bear the fact that we're more successful, even though so many more people from Tharbad settled there."

"Besides, they're idiots," Torel shrugged carelessly. "They are also incompetent businessmen; that's what my father tells me at least. Be that as it may, the feast is really wonderful. Three hours after sundown, everybody comes together in the marketplace. Then…"

The young man continued, describing the event he had quite obviously been waiting for impatiently, but Aragorn wasn't really listening. Torel's words had triggered something in his mind, something he simply couldn't grasp or get a hold on. It was a memory that was trying to rise to the surface of his mind, but since his brain was still weakened by fever and pain, it had a hard time freeing itself of the fog that seemed to cloud most of his subconscious. It had been something Torel had said, Aragorn decided … no, not something the other man had said, but rather something he had heard, somewhere…

Torel was still talking, now describing what would happen on the second and third day of the festival, when the thought solidified in his mind, suddenly taking shape like a person stepping out of the mist. The other's voice became softer and softer until he could hardly hear him, and Aragorn felt how his breath caught in his throat and cold sweat began to gather on his brow.

_'Nothing will stand in the way of my revenge, and the inhabitants of Aberon will meet their ancestors in a most befitting way.'_ Acalith's words, spoken not too long ago in her study while Legolas and he had been hiding on the balcony in the rain, returned to him with unnatural clarity, and Aragorn could almost feel the fear that had nearly choked him then. 

Aragorn slowly and carefully closed his eyes, refusing to believe what he had just realised. It couldn't be, could it? Who would do such a thing? Aberon. Donrag. Tharbad. _Nothing will stand in the way of my revenge_. Torel. _Everybody who can be here, will be here. _Acalith. _The inhabitants of Aberon will meet their ancestors in a most befitting way._

Varda Elentári, would they really do something like that? 

Even while he was answering his own question, Aragorn heard a voice that called his name, sounding concerned and even a little fearful.  
"Strider? Master Ranger? Are you all right? Strider!" 

Aragorn opened his eyes and looked at the two young men in front of him, already regretting what he would ask of them even despite the cold determination that settled over him.  
"Can you get me my weapons and a cloak?"

Vonar traded a very confused look with his cousin.  
"Uhm … yes, I can, but…"

"Do it then, please," Aragorn told him, in a friendly but very firm manner. "And do it quickly. We mustn't lose any time."

"The question of your health and your and our safety put aside, why do we have to hurry?" Torel asked, a frown creasing his forehead. "Whatever it is that is troubling you, I am sure that it can wait until my uncle comes back and…"

"No, Torel," the ranger shook his head as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. A pained grimace flashed over his face before it was hidden behind a stoic mask of steely determination. The fact that he had used his name only reinforced Torel's suspicion that something was very, very wrong. The dark-haired man bent down to pick up one of his boots, evidently shaking off nausea and dizziness. "Trust me on this."

"Why? What's going on?"

Aragorn looked up, his eyes hard and serious in his bruised face.  
"If I am right – and I pray to the One that I am not – we don't have any time at all."

Torel looked at him and at his solemn grey eyes that had darkened with what could only be anxiety and perhaps even fear, and decided with a sinking heart that he believed him, no matter how much he would have liked to ignore his words. Confusion and fear began to wash over him in waves, and he felt himself nod as he stood to his feet, turning around to carry out the other man's softly spoken command.

He began to walk out of the room, moving as if in some sort of trance, and as he was stepping over the room's threshold, he couldn't help but feel that he had crossed an invisible line, and that after this night, nothing would be like it had been before.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
dúnedain (S.) - 'Men of the West', rangers  
Lótessë (Q.) - 'May', the fifth month of the year according to the Stewards' Reckoning. On a modern calendar, the time between April 23rd and May 22nd_

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Well, FINALLY. It took them long enough to figure out what was going on. •g• To make up for my tardiness, this chapter is seven pages longer than my usual 15. It's a small consolation, I know, but I'm doing what I can. •g• So, now that everything has gone straight to hell, stay tuned for the next act of this catastrophe, in which Acalith finds out that sons of Elrond can be even more annoying than she'd thought. Elrond & Co. finally arrive in Aberon, which makes several people (including them) rather unhappy and Aragorn does, once again, something incredibly stupid. He's very good at it, isn't he? •g• Reviews are, as always, very appreciated and might help me to forget about my nervousness that beginning to border on panic. So: Review? Yes, please! •g•

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****Additional A/N:**

Since sending a huge review-response email worked so well the last time, I'll stick with it for a while. So, everybody who reviews and leaves his email address gets included in the email.

My apologies to Dae, MaddyPaddy, Bookworm13, Jack and Crystal-Rose15. I couldn't find your email addresses, sorry.

Thanks a lot for all your kind words!


	31. I Spy

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

Hola and hello from Madrid! I still don't really know how this is all going to work out, but it's getting a little bit quieter, giving me a moment to breathe. Which I need. Urgently. •g• Well, be that as it may, I am here, found a flat, bought a mobile, managed to find the university AND the accompanying language course and am right now in the process of opening a bank accont here. If I manage to do that with my knowledge of the Spanish language (which still hasn't improved dramatically), I will be my own personal hero for the next few months.

So, I am back, more or less at least. Internet is still a little bit tricky, but my new flatmates and I are thinking about getting Wireless Internet here. It might take a bit until it's actually up and running, but we're getting there. •g• Madrid is lovely, btw, I can only recommend a visit. Good luck finding a friendly waiter around here, though. They are supposed to exist, but I have yet to meet one.

All right, enough of that, here's the next chapter. Because I kept you waiting for so long, it's ... sit down first ... 35 pages long. Well, what can I say, those of you who know me know that, towards the end of a story, my chapters begin to take on biblical proportions. I doubt that you'll complain, though. So, we see more of Legolas and Elrohir - who promptly insult Acalith, of course -, of Isál and Annorathil - who have read Harry Potter one too many times -, and, yes, Elrond & Co. finally get here and Glorfindel is SERIOUSLY displeased. I know, I know, •finally•.

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 31  
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**A small part of Isál was finding a perverse pleasure in the fact that he had been right and everything had gone from bad to worse to abysmal in a matter of seconds. It was only a small part, of course, but it was large enough for him to worry about his mental health.

That was most likely a completely unnecessary concern, since he was quite obviously already stark raving mad, Isál reasoned calmly while an unnamed human guard poked him in the back in order to animate him to move more quickly. He had never understood just what about being prodded or pushed would inspire in anyone the wish to move more quickly or be more co-operative, but that was just the way such people thought, he guessed.

The fact that he was completely unaffected by the man's unsubtle attempts to make him move faster wasn't lost on the human, nor was he particularly pleased about it. For a second, he looked confused, as if he just couldn't understand why the dark-haired elf in front of him didn't start hurrying up the road that was leading to Lady Acalith's mansion. Another second later he apparently arrived at the conclusion that he didn't care and pushed him again, this time even harder.

Only Isál's quick reflexes saved him from a fall he would have found particularly embarrassing, and as soon as he had regained his footing he turned around in a slow, deliberate manner that had served to awaken fear in the heart of many a recruit in the past. The man managed to look at him for only a few seconds before he had to avert his gaze, something that would have given Isál quite a lot of satisfaction under normal circumstances. 

That these weren't normal circumstances had become abundantly clear, at the latest, when they had been discovered, surrounded, disarmed and tied up, only to be marched up here like a group of hobbit children on a school expedition. It was probably the last part that bothered him most of all, since he had known from the very beginning that they would be discovered, surrounded, disarmed and tied up. That he had still gone along with this mad suicide attempt Elrohir had thinly disguised as a plan was, on close examination, rather worrying, too.

One of the guard's companions noticed his friend's problem and, in a display of brotherly helpfulness, slammed the stock of his crossbow into Isál's back. Elven reflexes or no elven reflexes, there were some things for which you just couldn't compensate, no matter how much you had expected something like this to happen. The heavy wooden stock hit the elven captain straight in centre of his back, throwing him completely off balance and slamming him into the elves in front of him. The thought that he didn't have a chance of breaking his fall with his hands tied behind him was flittering through Isál's head a split second before the pain hit him, drowning out all other sensations. 

The sounds around him were suddenly muted and chaotic, almost as if something soft had laid itself over the world, and he was only vaguely aware of agitated voices and steadying hands that prevented him from falling flat on his face. It took him some more time to come to his senses, but when he did, his first look was that of a muddy street. It was a riddle he couldn't solve immediately, either because he was still confused because someone had just tried to rearrange his spinal column or because he was – as he had decided not too long ago – very mad, but finally he realised that his head was hanging forward, thus enabling him to look at the wonderfully fascinating road beneath his feet.

That was a situation he wasn't prepared to put up with, especially since he could still feel the eyes of the guards boring into his battered back. Shaking off the last shreds of the strange, soft material that were still clinging to the edges of his vision, Isál raised his head and found that the sight that greeted him was much more agreeable than a muddy road. Annorathil's face frowned at him, thus presenting not quite as agreeable sight as Gaerîn, for example, would have. Isál snorted inwardly. No one and nothing presented as agreeable a sight as Gaerîn.

"Sir?" the other elf asked softly in Sindarin, looking up quickly to give the guards who walked some feet away from them a look so withering that they looked away almost immediately. "Are you all right, Captain?"

Isál had to swallow twice before he could muster the strength to answer.  
"Yes, Annorathil. I am just fine."

The older elf gave him a look that quite clearly said that he didn't believe a single word of that, but respect or concern for his superior caused him to nod nevertheless.  
"I am glad."

Isál smiled at the other elf's formal answer and slowly began to disentangle himself from his grip. If Annorathil hadn't caught him – with his hands bound quite an impressive achievement – he would most certainly have fallen.  
"It appears that these people here aren't overly worried about using force."

"Why should they be, sir?" the dark-haired elf asked coolly. "There's nothing we can do to stop them, after all."

"Not right now, no," Isál agreed softly, a truly dangerous sparkle in his eyes. "But that might change."

Annorathil gave him another dubious look, but before he could answer, the man to his right gave him a rough shove in the back that nearly sent both of them to the ground.  
"Hey, you! No talking! What are blabbering on about, anyway?" 

Isál shortly contemplated doing the right thing and not answering, but then he decided that he just couldn't help himself. He had spent the past half-hour or so in a state he had never experienced before, namely with so much hatred, pain and loathing swirling in his heart that he could hardly breathe. If these people here had been "ordinary" humans, he would only have loathed them and might even have pitied them – they had to be remarkably stupid, after all, since only idiots, madmen or masochists would voluntarily chance the wrath of Lord Elrond Half-elven of Rivendell.

These weren't ordinary humans, though. They were far from ordinary, and if Isál'd had a hand free, only one, he would already have tried to snap someone's neck. He wasn't usually this blood-thirsty, but there were some things he would never forgive, never, as long as he lived and no matter under what circumstances. Actually, there were exactly three things he didn't forgive: If someone disrespected his lord, endangered or betrayed his home, and if someone killed his friends.

These people here had done all three, and if they ever gave him the slightest chance, he would gladly and gleefully do his best to kill all of them in the most painful way imaginable.

An impatient movement at the edge of his vision brought him back to the present, and, realising that the guard was still waiting for his answer, he turned to the right and gave him a broad smile without slowing down.

"We were discussing how to best turn you into beetles. My friend here tried to convince me of the advantages of turning you into ants, but I insist on beetles. It makes a far more satisfying sound if you step on them, wouldn't you agree?"

Watching the man's face was actually quite interesting. There was surprise visible there at first, but it was quickly replaced by suspicion, fear, and finally anger. Isál would have liked to say that he was surprised to see the anger, but he wasn't. Neither was he surprised when the man drew back and dealt another blow with the stock of his crossbow. If the elven captain hadn't been so furious himself, he would even have admired the man's aim – he had managed to hit him in the exact same place where the other guard had hit him. He stumbled forward, more than prepared to find himself on his knees in the dirt in a second or two, but Annorathil grasped his arm once more with an almost weary movement.

By the time Isál had straightened up again for the second time, they had almost reached the tall, forbidding walls that encircled Acalith's large house. Through the spots that still danced across his vision, Isál could see a large gate ahead, flanked right and left by throngs of soldiers. Soldiers were in fact the only people they had seen during their walk from the warehouse up to the centre of the town.

The only possible reason for this, Isál decided, was that the people of this city simply didn't care about what happened at night, or that they maybe didn't care about what happened to elves. He had seen several windows open while they had been marched through the narrow streets, only to watch as they were closed almost instantaneously. This at least was something about which Prince Legolas had been correct; no one in this town would aid them in any way, be it because they were captives or because they were elves. Which one was the case here was rather inconsequential in his opinion. 

"Don't do this, sir," Annorathil's soft voice next to him drew him back from his musings. "This will serve no purpose."

Isál shot the other elf a quick look, noting that he wasn't looking at him directly in order not to alarm the guards to their conversation. Who cared, he asked himself scathingly. They could hit him again and again if they wished; it still wouldn't make him obey them.  
"What will serve no purpose, Annorathil?"

"You antagonising them, sir," the elf answered calmly, moving a little bit closer to him, as if he was trying to steady him. "I understand your motives, Elbereth be my witness, I do, but it won't help you or anyone else, least of all those who are far beyond this world and all its troubles." 

If Isál had thought that Annorathil would be impressed by one of his dark glares, he would most certainly have given him one of them. Annoyingly, though, the other elf wouldn't be impressed by anything short of Lord Elrond's _look_, and there was no way he would be able to reproduce it. He wasn't related to him, for one.

"Don't say it," he shook his head minutely, staring straight ahead. Suddenly, he wished that they would reach their destination so that he would have an excuse to end this conversation. "I will heed Lord Elrohir's orders and not do anything that would openly provoke these people. I will make sure that he and Lord Erestor reach safety, somehow, and then I will have my revenge. There is nothing more to say."

The dark-haired elf looked at him then, green-blue eyes full of understanding and compassion, before he dropped his gaze to the road again.   
"There is much more to say, sir, and both you and I know it. I understand what you feel, Captain, I truly do. I, too, know what it feels like to lose a sword-brother."

Isál kept staring straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at the other elf. He wasn't quite sure what Lord Glorfindel's "things-an-elf-lord-never-does rules" said about crying in front of your enemies, but he could very well imagine. It wasn't so much the thought of Elvynd, of his dead friend whom he had loved as a brother as long as he could remember, no, it was the term Annorathil had used: Sword-brother.

Elvynd, always the more solemn and serious of the two of them, had first used that word for their friendship, when they had both been so much younger. It had sounded like battles fought long before their time, like honour and glory everything they had dreamed of back then. Now, however, it sounded of quiet despair, and of anger and hatred so deep that, in the quiet hours of the night, he was afraid that Elvynd wouldn't recognise him when they met again in the Blessed Realm.

Oh yes, Isál thought, feeling numb more than anything else. They had been sword-brothers, and never had anyone or anything managed to slip past their defences when they had been fighting together. When it had mattered most, however, he hadn't been there and had left his best friend, his sword-brother, to fend for himself, and that was what he hated himself for with an intensity that rivalled the hatred he felt for these men and their superiors. 

"I … I didn't know that," he finally said, in order to say _something_. "I grieve with you."

"It has been a long time," Annorathil said in a way of explanation. "He died before the Black Tower, in the last battle." A small, almost undetectable smile spread over his guarded face. "I am sure he would have appreciated the symbolism. Be that as it may, I know what you're going through, sir. If the war hadn't been over right after his death, I would have sought revenge at all cost as well. What I understood a long time ago, though, is that my friend wouldn't have wanted me to throw my life away in such a matter. I knew Captain Elvynd, too, sir. I know that he wouldn't have wanted it either."

A part of Isál knew that the other elf was right, but even if they had been in a less dangerous situation, he wouldn't have wanted to talk about this. He _couldn't _have talked about it.  
"Don't," he begged softly, doing his best to avoid the other's eyes and stare at the gate that was swiftly drawing closer. "Please, Annorathil, just don't."

The dark-haired elf inclined his head after a second, but thankfully remained silent. It was just a second too late, though, for the same guard who had hit Isál for talking a moment ago had returned his attention to them, looking none too pleased that they had disregarded his earlier order to remain quiet.

"You don't learn, do you?" the man drawled, stepping closer to them and giving them what was apparently meant to be a mock-benevolent smile. "Just what is it that is so interesting?"

Isál opened his mouth to say something, but to his surprise Annorathil spoke first, having apparently decided that he wouldn't allow his captain to insult their captors all on his own.  
"As he said earlier, human, we are discussing into what kind of beetles we should turn you. If it can't be ants as I wanted, I think it should be dung beetles, considering your environment. He, however, wants to turn you into stag beetles, I don't know why either."

Isál shook his head in mock disapproval, deciding that he found the way in which the man began to turn red with anger highly satisfying.   
"I told you, Annorathil, that turning humans into dung beetles is very problematic if you don't have your wand. The last time I tried that they were turned into fleas, and where would we be then? You can't really step on fleas."

"Oh, you can," Annorathil shook his head, apparently getting into the spirit of things. "It just doesn't crunch as satisfyingly."

The man stared at them, slack-jawed, and if Isál hadn't hated him and the other soldiers so much, he would even have been amused. He didn't really know from where humans got their ridiculous stories about elves being dark sorcerers, but who was he to rob them of their illusions if they were stupid to believe something like that?

Whether it was because they had just reached the gates or because the man actually thought that they could turn him into a beetle, they would never know, but the guard did nothing more than give both of them a push forward. Brief pain reawoke in his back at the ungentle treatment, but Isál ignored it, aided by the fact that his entire concentration was taken by their surroundings as they passed the gates and stepped into a large, cobbled courtyard. Even though he had never been here, he felt very much like a mouse that had stepped into a trap, or like a very stupid elf who had walked into a courtyard that was filled with people who wanted to kill him.

Some yards ahead of him Legolas was having just the same feelings, only that he had been here before and knew that they were completely justified. Forcing his thoughts away from these particularly dark musings, he scanned his surroundings. He might know that, this time, his dark thoughts weren't nearly dark enough, but that didn't mean that they had to be indulged. Everybody made mistakes, even madmen like Gasur, and as soon as they did, he would be ready to act.

And then he would tear Gasur's throat out, or do something equally final.

They were pulled to a stop in the middle of the courtyard, most likely in order to give the humans time to get everyone through the gates, lock them behind them and inform their lady. If Legolas was perfectly honest, he didn't care in the slightest why the humans were doing the things they did; he had lost all interest in it about two broken bones ago. They could do whatever they wanted, as long as they didn't expect him to show any sympathy or understanding for their actions. Gasur was right now climbing the steps that led up to the main building and disappeared through the large door, probably to confer with his lady, but not before Legolas could fervently wish that he would stumble and break his neck.

At least Elrohir's men seemed to be more or less in one piece, the elf tried to cheer himself up – an effort that failed quite spectacularly since he understood the severity of their situation too well to be reassured by anything but divine intervention or a sudden bout of heart attacks that would kill all humans present instantaneously. Still, the others looked none the worse for wear, except for a few bruises here and there. The men had neither been lenient nor gentle while they had "escorted" them here, and hadn't displayed a sense of humour either.

Legolas grinned inwardly, finding it quite astonishing that he could still find amusements in such situations. It had apparently finally happened, a small voice inside his head whispered. The twins and Aragorn had finally and irrevocably corrupted him with their "sense of humour". Be that as it may, though, it _had _been funny listening to Isál threatening his guards with turning them into beetles. Since Elrohir and he had been separated from the others and had been at the front of the group (once again proof that Gasur wasn't quite as stupid as he looked), he hadn't been able to watch the entire thing, something he was regretting by now. 

"Are you all right?" Elrohir's soft voice interrupted his train of thought, and Legolas slowly turned back to him in as nonchalant a way as possible. He didn't know if the guards would allow them to talk to each other, but he didn't really want to find out, either.

Legolas thought about lying for a second and finally decided against it, both because he didn't think Elrohir would believe him anyway and because he simply couldn't be bothered trying.  
"No," he answered curtly. "No, I am not all right." 

If there was a way to look crestfallen while at the same time maintaining an emotionless, carefully controlled façade, Elrohir had found it.   
"I am sorry, my friend. I…"

"No," Legolas shook his head minutely. "Don't, Elrohir. Not now. We must find a way out of this, somehow."

Elrohir kept looking at the large house in front of him that didn't look quite as menacing as he had imagined it, not even in the flickering torch light. It didn't really surprise him, though; he had learned a long time ago that most of the things and people who were truly tainted by evil seldom looked it, too.

"You are right," he agreed in so soft a voice that no one but Legolas would be able to hear him. "Do you have any ideas?"

Legolas didn't answer immediately as he scrutinised their guards. Most of them seemed to be more interested in making sure that no one approached them than in making sure that their captives remained quiet. The fact that Isál and the others had made sure that they were at least partly shielded from the humans' eyes once they had all been pushed into the middle of the courtyard might have been partly responsible for that, too. They had done it furtively and without attracting any attention, so right now Elrohir and he were more or less surrounded by the rest of the warriors who did their best not to let the humans see that they were shielding their superiors.

"How good is Annorathil without proper tools?" the fair-haired prince asked finally, his eyes not leaving the guards that were visible from their position. "I don't think that they will give us that kind of chance, but it might become useful once we need to open Lord Erestor's cell." 

"If he were any better, Aulë himself would become jealous," Elrohir answered without hesitation. "If he can use his hands in any way, he will be able to open anything even remotely resembling a lock."

Legolas gave a small nod and was just about to tell his friend that this, at least, was a tiny bit of good news, when he sensed more than saw Gasur return. He had never thought it possible for one of the Second People, but Legolas would have been able to swear that the man possessed an aura that was so tangible that it could be sensed even by the most untalented person. It was, in fact, dark, menacing and simply evil enough for a blind, dumb and deaf man to notice without any problems at all.

The brown-haired man slowly walked down the stone steps – no, he sauntered down the stone steps, Legolas quickly corrected himself. To look more like the proverbial cat that had eaten the equally proverbial bird would be physically impossible for a man.

Gasur had reached the bottom of the stairs now and was beginning to stroll over to them, and Legolas couldn't help the shudder that raced over his back. Gasur hadn't given him more than a fleeting glance now and then, and not once during their walk from the town wall to Acalith's mansion had the man stopped to gloat or tell him in vivid detail what would happen to all of them. It was highly unlike him, and even though Legolas would never want to presume that he understood how that lunatic's mind worked, he knew that it simply couldn't be good.

Nothing Gasur had in mind for him or his friends could ever be anything but bad.

The brown-haired captain stopped in front of them, looking at Legolas for a long moment. There was something so dark and almost insane shining in his eyes that the elf couldn't help but stare at him in faint surprise. It wasn't that he hadn't known that Gasur was quite assuredly mad, but … well, he hadn't known that he was _this _mad. Then again, he hadn't known anyone _could be_ this mad. It wasn't a real surprise, either, it was more like … pain, Legolas decided thoughtfully. Neither humans nor elves could truly remember how badly something had hurt until they were confronted with it once again.

In the same moment Legolas decided firmly that he really needed to try and draw less depressing comparisons, Gasur began to smile, thus proving that they were indeed in deep, deep trouble.

"So good to see you again, _elf_," he said in an almost pleasant tone of voice. Why he would try to sound friendly and yet at the same time pronounce the name of his race as if it was a disgusting, distasteful disease, Legolas didn't even try to understand. "And you have brought me some of your friends to play with. How … thoughtful."

A dozen possible answers blossomed in the elf's mind, most of them involving words that he wouldn't repeat in polite company, but he forced himself to remain silent as he felt Elrohir shift next to him, either in anger or in agitation. He had spent enough time in Gasur's "company" to know that he wasn't quite as stupid as he looked. He was baiting him, trying to gauge his feelings and weaknesses in this new, changed situation, and he would be damned if he played right into his hands.

"Nothing to say?" Gasur asked unbelievingly. "Don't tell me you can't come up with one of your oh-so-witty replies? Or do you need your little ranger friend do come up with them for you? Where is he, by the way? I don't think we were … finished yet."

Legolas didn't have to look at Elrohir to know that the twin was only one step away from throwing caution and reason in the wind and trying to strangle the human in front of them. It would be rather difficult, especially since Elrohir's hands were bound behind his back, but Legolas was sure that, if someone would be able to manage it, it would be Elrohir.

He was about to say something before Elrohir could go ahead and do something he would surely be made to regret later, but then he paused suddenly, realising what the man's words meant. He didn't know what had happened to Aragorn, the elf thought, excitement and relief rushing through his entire being. He didn't know that they had both reached Aberon, didn't know that Tibron's son and nephew had helped them. He only knew what he'd been told, namely that they would try to enter Donrag tonight.

Only willpower and control learned over several centuries of dealing with arrogant foreign embassies and advisors enabled him to keep up an emotionless façade, but inwardly Legolas was grinning from ear to ear. The 'Fox' didn't know that Aragorn was alive, which meant that Tibron hadn't betrayed them. One of Hurag's men must have seen them in the city and must have informed his master who, in turn, had informed Acalith, that was the only possibility that made sense.

Legolas said a mute prayer of thanks to Elbereth Gilthoniel and any other Vala who might be interested. Aragorn was safe, and Gasur wouldn't get his hands on him.

The captain in question might have been even more insane than Legolas remembered him, but he hadn't changed in any other way. Patience still wasn't his strong suit, and so it didn't surprise the elven prince overly much when, a second later, a hand grasped him by the throat and pulled him forward. Elrohir automatically took a step forward to aid his friend, actually growling low in his throat, but two of the guards grabbed him by his bound arms and sharply pulled him back.

Legolas could feel the still raw cut on his neck reopen and felt fresh blood run down his throat and over the fingers that were wrapped tightly around his neck. Gasur's actions didn't surprise him, no, but what he found slightly strange was that the man didn't seem to be angry. The fear and anxiety he was working so hard to keep in check grew even more, no matter how much he tried to push them back into the secluded part of his mind into which he had banned them. Gasur was _always _angry. Oh no, this wasn't good at all.

"Ah, but we can't have that," Gasur told him, in an almost friendly tone of voice. His cold, utterly blank eyes flickered from the face of the fair-haired elf to that of his dark-haired companion, and a smile spread over his face at the sight of his furious expression. "I will bring you two before Lady Acalith in a second, so let's try to remember our good manners, shall we? If you are asked a question, you will answer. Is that clear?" 

The man's hand tightened around Legolas' throat, an action that was apparently meant to motivate him to answer but did quite the opposite because the elven prince could hardly draw breath, let alone speak. Gasur seemed to realise that, too, but he only relaxed his grip after several more moments.

"Well, _elf_?" he asked again. "Where is the ranger? There is so much more he, you and I have to … discuss."

Passionate hatred laid itself over Elrohir's face like a dark cloud, and Legolas cleared his throat before the twin could say something that would, at least, garner him a blow to the face.  
"He is dead," he said curtly, wincing as he tried to suppress a cough that would only have aggravated the pain in his chest and throat. "I … I lost him in the river."

"Did you now?" Gasur asked, interested. "And I thought he was tougher than that."

"You dislocated his shoulders, _lyg_," Elrohir told him, spearing the man with one of his father's _looks_. He didn't disagree, though, apparently realising what Legolas was trying to do. "Why don't you cut me loose? We'll see how well _you _can swim if you can't use your arms."

A look of twisted amusement flashed over the brown-haired man's face, quickly followed by a grin not even Sauron would have found pleasant. Instead of answering, Gasur let go of the elven prince's throat and pushed him backwards with an almost lazy movement of his arms. Weakened as he was, Legolas was unable to react or regain his balance in time, and so he crashed into the twin behind him, very nearly sending both of them to the ground. Even with his hands tied behind him, Elrohir somehow managed to steady his friend, and as soon as he was sure that Legolas would be able to remain on his feet, he raised his head again, grey eyes almost black with anger. 

"I know, I know," Gasur grinned at him. "You will take your sword and kill me."

"Actually," Elrohir retorted nonchalantly, "I was thinking about using a blunt spoon."

At the edges of his vision he could see several of the soldiers straighten in the unmistakable manner of people who were only one step away from either dying of fright of gnawing off their own tongues in order not to laugh. He was not the only one to notice, at least judging by the way the man turned around and gave his men a look that promised blood, death and pain in the near future. It wasn't nearly as vicious as the look he gave the two elves in front of him, and for the first time Elrohir began to understand the expression in Legolas' eyes that had been visible every time his friend had spoken about the 'Fox'.

This one, the twin decided in an instant, was as mad as Eöl on a bad day.

Without another word the man turned around, walking back the way he had come. As if on an unspoken signal, two guards grabbed Elrohir and pushed him forward while two more did the same with Legolas. More soldiers encircled the two of them, making sure that it became abundantly clear that they didn't have the slightest chance to escape, and even through the faint amusement that rose inside of him at this display of slight paranoia, Elrohir could feel annoyance and anxiety. These humans might be overcautious, but they weren't stupid.

A moment later they had reached the stairs, and while Legolas was being pushed up the staircase next to him, Elrohir twisted around, trying to see what would happen to his men. He didn't really know if he should feel relieved or not when he saw that they were being pushed over to another part of the building – then again, manhandled would probably a better term. All will to co-operate seemed to have left the warriors in the exact moment their lord's son and his friend had roughly been dragged up the stairs, and the men were now finding out that making an elf do something he didn't want to do wasn't all that easy, even if said elf was bound.

Elrohir needed only a moment to realise what was going on. Putting all his urgency into his gaze, he stared at Isál's figure who was staying stubbornly in one spot, ignoring the two guards who were trying to pull him over to the right. Whether by chance or because he had sensed the look, he would never know, but a second or two before Legolas and he reached the main door, Isál looked up and met his eyes. Elrohir held his gaze and minutely shook his head, silently imploring the other elf to co-operate.

Even though co-operation was clearly the farthest thing from his mind at the moment, the dark-haired captain nodded back reluctantly, a movement so minute that only an elf or an extraordinarily perceptive person would have seen it. Elrohir did not see whether or not the other elf actually followed his order since they crossed the threshold in this very moment and disappeared inside the house. Pushing the matter to the back of his mind, he forced himself to pay attention to their surroundings; even though he thought it highly unlikely that they would have to find their way around here, it couldn't hurt to be prepared.

He had barely enough time to note that, this time, the décor of the hallways they were dragged through wasn't screaming "megalomaniacal villain living here" before they reached a large wooden door that was guarded by two rather serious and skilled-looking soldiers. The décor might be quite tasteful and normal and the building was even well-lit, Elrohir thought detachedly while Gasur raised a hand to knock, but the people they passed looked just like every single civilian had looked in Baredlen, Girion's city, namely deeply frightened by anything unusual that might have unfavourable consequences for them in any way. Girion had been a tyrant and insane, and he didn't really have to follow that train of thought any further to reach an unpleasant conclusion.

The door was opened from the inside, moving soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, and they were pushed forward once more, over the threshold and into the room. Gasur had already entered the room, his head held high and chest thrust out like a particularly insane rooster. All in all, he looked as if he had just single-handedly bested all of them in single combat, and once again the powerful, all-consuming wish to simply snap this man's neck rose inside of the twin before he forcefully pushed it back down. He couldn't allow himself to get distracted, not now when the lives of his warriors, Erestor and Legolas depended on him.

Next to him, Legolas was thinking much the same, but his attention was quickly diverted by the large, dark chair that stood in the centre of the room, dominating the rest of the space much in the same manner in which the occupant dominated the humans in the room. Legolas' first emotion was surprise, quickly followed by astonishment. The woman sitting in the chair, perched on the edge of the seat like a child using her parents' furniture, was small, much smaller than he had imagined her. She was also much younger – she couldn't be much older than maybe twenty-five summers – and, this was the most surprising thing, somehow, far more beautiful than he'd thought.

She was, in fact, Legolas decided detachedly, one of the most beautiful human women he had encountered until now, which admittedly didn't mean all that much since he hadn't met too many of them. She was delicate and slender, had dark, almost black hair that was almost as curly as a hobbit's, and large, dark blue eyes that regarded them calmly and, for a frightening second, reminded him of those of Celylith's sister who had sailed into the West long years ago.

There, however, all beauty ended, and Legolas saw clearly that this woman – or rather girl – was nothing like his silver-haired friend's sister. Where there had been kindness and humour in Calowiël's eyes, there was calculation, arrogance and coldness in Acalith's, and no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't see a shred of compassion or even sanity. That, Legolas admitted wryly, would have been a little too much to ask, too. 

"Ah," the object of his scrutiny remarked softly, inspecting them as closely as they were inspecting her. "Hurag was right after all." 

Gasur was opening his mouth, most likely in order to gloat some more, but before he could even say a single word, another man had appeared next to Acalith's chair, stepping out of the shadows to her left like a ghost. He wasn't a ghost, though, Legolas decided instantly; if he had learned anything at all in the years at his father's court, he was a councillor, and a high-ranking one at that.

"Indeed he has," the man announced smugly. "It was wise of you to trust his message, my lady. There is no telling what these two and their men could have done if they hadn't been intercepted right away."

A small part of Legolas bristled at the man's tone and the way he talked about them, namely as if they weren't even there or at least didn't possess the ability to understand him, but the larger part ignored his hurt pride and listened closely. He didn't have to be a master diplomat to sense the animosity that hung in the air above Gasur and the older man, and even a blind man would have seen the look of pure, burning hatred that Gasur shot the other man. Elrohir seemed to have come to the same conclusion, even though Legolas could almost hear the dark-haired elf clench his teeth in anger. 

"Are you questioning my ability to control this city, _sir_?" Gasur asked in a barely controlled voice, sounding very much as if he was choking on the last word. "Or a group of barely a dozen elves?" 

Even despite the pain in his body that still hadn't abated and the fact that he was only one step away from losing control over his more violent impulses, Legolas couldn't help but be fascinated. He hadn't thought that Gasur was intelligent or ambitious enough to have a power struggle such as this one going with anyone, least of all with someone who was quite clearly both older and more experienced in such matters.

"Oh, you misunderstand me, Captain," Salir shook his head evenly, an unidentifiable sparkle appearing in his eyes before it disappeared just as quickly. "It is just that … well, do I have to remind you of what happened when you and your men had to handle _seven _elves?" 

Legolas hadn't thought that Gasur could look even more like a rabid animal than he already was, but he had apparently been mistaken. In the same moment the elven prince was expecting the man to jump forward and try to bite the older human, the woman sitting in the large chair raised a hand. The simple gesture was enough to make the two of them fall silent instantaneously, which told Legolas more about her than a long-winded characterisation ever could have.

"Silence," Acalith commanded in a cool, emotionless tone of voice. "We will address this matter once all this is over, not a second earlier. Do you understand me?" She didn't wait for the two men to acknowledge her words and turned her attention to the two elves in front of her, who were quite successfully projecting the air of adults who had been forced to attend a meeting of a group of bickering children. She glanced at Legolas before she looked at Elrohir, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise. "So, you are Lord Elrond's son. It is most kind of you to join us, my lord."

Elrohir narrowed his eyes, contemplating his options, and quickly decided that cold silence would get them only so far – or, to be precise, not far at all in this case.  
"And you are the woman who condemned herself, her soldiers and all her people to a most uncomfortable death. My lord and father will not let your deeds go unpunished."

Gasur's dark expression became even more forbidding and he stepped forward, quite clearly taking offence at the elf's words, but Acalith shook her head sharply. The man stopped where he was and contended himself with staring darkly at the two elves in front of him.

"No, I hadn't expected him to," the young woman shook her head calmly. "But that shouldn't concern you nearly as much as your current situation, Master Elf. You two and your ranger friend caused me an awful lot of trouble."

"Yes," Elrohir nodded indifferently. "We tried."

A smile actually spead over Acalith's face at that, and Elrohir arrived at the same conclusion as Legolas had a few moments ago: This woman was at least as mad as her cold-eyed lover.

"And you succeeded," the dark-haired woman told him evenly. "You are a lot like the dear Lord Erestor in that regard. You know what, I would actually be willing to bet that he was your teacher at one point or other; as one of your father's advisors, it would be hardly uncommon."

All nonchalance disappeared from the twin's face in an instant, and even Legolas was impressed by the dark, menacing air that began to emanate from his form.  
"Where is he?"

"Right now?" the woman asked slyly. "You would have to ask Captain Gasur, really."

Elrohir's expression became even darker, and Legolas' estimation of the woman's madness went up another notch as she smiled. No one in their right mind would _smile _at a member of Lord Elrond's family when they were in this state of mind.

"What have you done to him?" the twin all but hissed, and Legolas began to understand what Aragorn had talked about when he had told him that he wouldn't want to be there when Elrohir's anger, fear and worry escaped his control and rose to the surface. "Know this, woman: My father and his captains will leave no stone on the other if he arrives here to find his chief advisor dead."

"Once your father arrives here – if he arrives here, that is – he will have other problems to concern himself with, trust me," Acalith waved a hand dismissively and leaned back into her large, high-backed chair. "And I never said that he was dead. Is he, Captain?"

Gasur grinned at her question, the grin of a partially sated predator that had become tired of playing with its prey – for a while.   
"No, my lady, he isn't dead. Not yet, that is."

"There you have it," Acalith smiled at the two of them, but the mirth never reached her eyes. "There is a small problem, though: I don't really need him anymore. He is still alive because of a whim of mine, nothing more than an indulgence, really." She leaned forward, her eyes cold and dark and utterly serious. "I don't have any reason to keep you or your men alive, Master Elf. My captain would thank me, surely, but I have learned my lesson. If you don't need an elf, you kill him; it's as easy as that."

Elrohir cocked his head slightly to the side as he studied the dark-haired woman, looking for any signs of humanity in her and failing.   
"You do realise, of course, that the murder of a diplomatic envoy is considered an act of war?"

Acalith smiled once again, this time looking openly amused.   
"Ah, but there is something you must realise, Master Elf: I _am _already at war, and have been for all my life."

"There is nothing my father or any of my people has ever done to you or your town," Elrohir told her scathingly. "You are delusional, and see threats where there are none."

"This isn't about you, elf!" the woman spat, shooting to her feet and exuding an aura of such tangible fury that the men in the room unconsciously took a step backwards. "It isn't about you, or your father, or even your precious Rivendell! This is so like you; you're always assuming that you are the reason for everything, that you are the centre of the world and that everything rotates around you! I couldn't care less about you and your thrice-damned kind!"

"You have a strange way of showing it, then," Legolas told her for his friend, cold fury tingeing his voice. "You ambush one of Lord Elrond's delegations, kill his soldiers, kidnap and torture his chief advisor and others in his service and now capture his son – and all of this because you do not _care_!"

Gasur looked at his lady, his eyes fixed on her almost imploringly as he silently asked her to be allowed to punish the elf for his impudent words, but the woman didn't even see him. Her entire attention was focussed on the two elves in front of her and the fury on their faces, and she felt how her anger even intensified.

"You are a pawn, elf, in a game you do not understand. Do you really think I care about your lord? I wouldn't have minded him at all if he hadn't started supporting _them_!"

"'Them'?" Elrohir repeated, slowly beginning to understand what the young woman was talking about. "You mean Aberon's council?"

"Not only them," Acalith hissed, a look of such intense hatred on her face that most humans in the room couldn't bear looking at her for longer than a few moments. "The entire population deserves to die, deserves to be wiped off the face of the earth like the vermin they are! They want to rule my town, they want to take what is mine, but I will not let them! Donrag is mine, mine alone!"

"I understand your position," Elrohir assured the woman, hoping against hope that she would be susceptible to reason. "I know that your town's situation has been … difficult for years now, but you cannot judge the entire town for the politics a few dozens of them make!"

"Do you honestly think that is all I care about?" Acalith asked condescendingly. "Let me tell you a story about your oh-so-innocent people of Aberon. I know them and their council, know them even better than the people of my own town, and do you want to know why? Because I was born there." 

Legolas blinked slowly, feeling Elrohir's surprise as keenly as his own. He somehow hadn't thought that Acalith had a past, let alone a childhood; he had thought that she had … well, just come into existence, somehow. Most likely via a large egg or something of the like, like every other self-respecting evil creature.

"Yes," the dark-haired woman told them with narrowed eyes. "My mother was the wife of one of the leading members of the traders' guild, and we lived in peace and comfort as was our due. But then, when I was nine years old, my father died on one of his journeys. His fellow master traders were overcome with grief, of course," Acalith went on in an acid tone of voice, "and showed their sympathy and commiseration by insisting that my mother follow the guild's ancient rules."

Elrohir looked at the woman who couldn't be much older than Aragorn and resolutely squashed all feelings of sympathy and even interest that began to grow in his breast. He didn't care why she had done the things she had done – fact remained that she _had _done them, and he would see to it that she regretted that particular decision.

"They didn't tell you about their precious rules, I presume?" Acalith went on, apparently not expecting them to say anything. "If one of the master traders dies, the widow must marry another member of the guild after a certain amount of time. It is a method that ensures that a trader's wealth remains in the guild where it belongs, and in the case of poorer families also a means to ensure that the widows and children are provided for. The rules are largely ignored now, but my father was rich, very rich. The traders' guild didn't want to lose all that money to another organisation. My mother, though, foolish woman that she was, refused to comply. She didn't love the trader they had picked for her, and thought that the rules wouldn't be applied, least of all to her." She shook her head scornfully. "Love. What has love got to do with marriage, anyway?"

"Let me guess," Legolas said coolly. "The rules were applied."

"Oh yes," the young woman hissed. "They were. Still my mother refused, and in the end we were cast out by the people we had called friends. We lost everything, money, power, influence and prestige, and had to leave the city. We lived with one of my mother's distant cousins outside the city walls where my mother died some years later, penniless and alone. I, however, did not die. I lived, and thrived on the stories my mother's cousin told me, the stories that told of my family's betrayal. I grew up, and when I was old enough, I returned and married the Lord of Donrag."

"Who, conveniently enough, died some years later," Elrohir inserted sarcastically.

"Yes," Acalith agreed calmly, apparently regaining some of her control. "He did. And now I am the lady of this place, and rule in his stead. And now I will have my revenge, on all those who wronged me and my family."

"This is about _revenge_?" Legolas asked incredulously, which mightn't have been the most intelligent thing to say. "You are doing this because of something that happened years and years ago? You killed Captain Elvynd and his men and captured Lord Erestor because Lord Elrond _traded _with Aberon?"

A faint hint of anger was visible in the woman's eyes, but she nodded coolly.  
"Yes."

Legolas narrowed his eyes, obviously preparing to say something scathing and highly undiplomatic, but Elrohir interrupted his friend. He really didn't want to have to explain to Aragorn why he had allowed the elven prince to get himself killed.  
"No, this isn't only about revenge. You are lying." 

This time, Gasur didn't wait for one of his lady's signals. The dark-haired captain had taken a step forward before anyone knew what was happening, and even if Acalith would have liked to stop him, she would simply not have had the time. There was an expression of extreme satisfaction on the man's face as he drew back and backhanded the elf sharply and with enough force to make him stumble into his fair-haired companion.

"No one calls our lady a liar, _elf_," he spat while Elrohir tried to regain his balance. "I'd advise you to be careful, or you'll find yourself floating next to your ranger friend."

Legolas looked up from where he was trying to steady his friend as best as he could and gave the man a look cold enough to chill a snow-troll.  
"Before all of this is over, _adan_, you will _wish _you had found yourself floating in the Hoarwell, trust me on this."

Even a blind person would have seen that the 'Fox' wasn't happy about his words, but before he could express his dissatisfaction in any way, Acalith had raised a hand, apparently having decided to regain control of the situation  
"Quiet," she commanded softly in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. "Now, what is it you were saying, Lord Elrohir?"

Elrohir shook his head to clear it of the dark tendrils that clung to his thoughts and looked up. Somehow it only made him madder when she used his proper title.

"You are lying," he repeated, glancing at Gasur out of the corner of his eyes as if daring him to repeat his earlier actions. "I know your type, woman; I have seen dozens of people just like you. You are simply not capable of acting out of the passion of the moment; it would be like expecting a dragon to become a vegetarian – it goes against their very nature, against the core of their being. Revenge is something that, in some people, only enhances wishes and intentions that were already there from the beginning. You are not only acting out of the desire to avenge yourself on the People of Aberon; if one were to expect this, one would think you capable of a depth of emotion you simply do not possess."

"Is that so?" Acalith asked evenly, cocking her head slightly to the side. It was a gesture that, in any other woman, would have looked lovely 

"Oh, aye," Elrohir nodded dismissively. "That is so. You want revenge, yes, but you also want power, gold and glory. And if you were honest with yourself, you would see that it is the thirst for the last three that drives you, not some vague notion of a revenge you use as an excuse for your deeds."

The dark-haired woman studied the two defiant elves in front of her before she smiled and turned to the side, raising her eyebrows at Gasur who was apparently only one step away from losing his temper completely.   
"You were right, Captain. They do like pointing out your 'hidden motivations'."

"Allow me to cut out their tongues, my lady," the man growled, not taking his eyes off his prisoners. "They won't be so quick to insult you after that."

The smile on Acalith's face grew even wider, but then she shook her head, oblivious to the disgusted look the two elves gave her.   
"I appreciate the sentiment, Captain, but I must decline your offer. That would ruin the most fun I've had in some time." She turned back to the stony-faced twin, amusement still visible on her face. "So, let me guess, Master Elf: Your father will not allow my … what was it? … ah yes, my 'vague notion of revenge' to fool him and will have me killed for my depraved thirst for gold and power?"

"Essentially," Elrohir frowned thoughtfully, "yes." 

Annoyance flashed over the young woman's features, and Legolas decided in a split second that she was as erratic and volatile as she was insane.  
"We will see about that, elf," she told Elrohir in a frigid tone of voice.

"You do not believe me?" Elrohir asked, faint surprise in his voice. "You do not believe that my father will come here to see that justice is served?"

"Oh, I do believe you," Acalith smiled mirthlessly. "But let me tell you what he will find: Nothing. None of his precious allies, and no one who will be able to tell him what happened."

"You are insane," Legolas said clearly, well aware of the fact that this particular observation was probably several years overdue. 

"No," the woman shook her head sedately. "Only misunderstood."

"I don't think so," Legolas shook his head as well. "How will you 'wipe' all of Aberon 'off the face of the earth'? Will you snap your fingers and will it so?"

A broad smile spread over Acalith's face at his words, a smile that was one of the most disconcerting sights Legolas had ever seen. He wasn't an elf prone to anxiety or exaggeration, but this must have been the kind of smile Annatar had worn when he had come to Celebrimbor's people with wise words on his lips and treachery in his heart.

"Oh, I won't have to do anything. Do you see this?" she asked, holding up her hand and displaying the large golden ring that adorned one of her slender fingers. "It is an heirloom of my dear late husband's family. History is about to repeat itself – with a little help from me, of course." 

Elrohir narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on the golden object, but he made the connection quite a bit quicker than his twin had some days ago. It appeared that being threatened with death and torment did wonders for one's motivation.  
"Your people are from Tharbad?"

"Oh yes," Acalith nodded, friendly. "And so are Aberon's." 

Legolas was still putting two and two together, only vaguely able to remember what had happened to the city of Tharbad nearly fifty years ago, when Elrohir's face lost all colour and he stared at the young woman as if she was a ghostly apparition.  
"You cannot mean to do this," he whispered softly. "There are hundreds, no, thousands of men, women and children in the city!"

Acalith smiled enigmatically and shrugged carelessly.   
"Not for long now."

"The dams," Legolas finally breathed, a look of barely controlled horror flickering over his face. "You did something to the dams." 

"Very good, Master Elf," the young woman nodded condescendingly. "Yes, I did something to the dams. The river will take care of the problem for me just like it did fifty years ago, and I won't even have to _do _anything."

"You would do this?" Elrohir asked, struggling to wrap his mind around the concept of a calm young woman sitting here and planning mass murder with the most nonchalant expression imaginable. "You would kill thousands of people, would kill the city were you were born in, for money and power and, maybe, revenge?"

Acalith raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. The answer to the elf's incredulous question was to be read in her hard, utterly lifeless eyes as clearly as if someone had written it on her smooth forehead with red ink.   
"Is there anything else worth killing for?"

It wasn't often that Elrohir or Legolas were rendered speechless, but now neither of them knew what to say. One didn't see a completely soulless creature everyday, after all.

"Maybe I was wrong," Legolas finally commented softy. "You aren't insane. You are sick."

"I will leave such judgement to more qualified people than you," the young woman retorted, apparently not very impressed. She looked to the side, meeting the eyes of a man who had stepped forward, an urgent expression on his face and a thick pad of scraps of parchment under his arm, and turned back around, the amusement disappearing from her face. "Now, as entertaining as this was, I am afraid I have other matters to attend to. Captain Gasur will show you to your … _room_."

"I want to see Lord Erestor," Elrohir said coldly, in a barely controlled tone of voice.

"You are hardly in the position to demand anything," Acalith retorted just as coldly. "I wouldn't concern myself with him if I were you, elf. He will be alive for longer than you, for what it's worth."

She turned to Gasur who had begun to relax a little at the prospect of being alone with his prisoners for a while.  
"Take them and the rest of their men to the largest cellar and make _sure _they cannot escape. If only one of them manages to disappear, I will hold you responsible. Do you understand?" Gasur nodded quickly, quite clearly willing to agree to anything if it meant that he and his men would get the chance to 'escort' the elves to the cell. "Make all the preparations for noon today. Not too early, though; we want as many people there as possible, after all."

Legolas and Elrohir exchanged a half-anxious and half-confused look, and Acalith turned back to them, amusement once again shining in her eyes.  
"You didn't think I would let you live, did you?"

"No," Legolas shook his head curtly. "No, not really." 

"I applaud your sense of realism," Acalith said ironically and turned to Gasur. "Take them away, Captain."

Displaying almost elven reflexes, the man jumped forward, an expression of intense anticipation on his face that made Legolas feel sick to his stomach. He ignored the man, however, and looked at his friend, who in turn looked about as distressed and horror-stricken as he felt.

This mad woman was planning to flood Aberon. He didn't really know how she planned to do this, but he had seen enough of her to know that she was not stupid. No matter what it was she had done, it would have been meticulously planned, with a fair chance of success. It had been raining for days, no, weeks now, and once the dams were breached…

Legolas would almost have closed his eyes. He had left his best friend in Aberon, alone and unprotected, his best friend who didn't suspect the danger he was in. His best friend who was not strong enough to move on his own, his best friend who would be trapped by the water.

Next to him, Elrohir was thinking much the same, his fear and panic growing with every passing second. He hardly noticed the rough hands that grabbed his bound arms and pulled him backwards, into the direction of the door, but before he was turned around and dragged away he lifted his head and looked straight at Acalith, his eyes cold and hard and utterly serious.

"This is not over yet, woman, trust me on this."

"On the contrary, Master Elf," the dark-haired woman retorted dispassionately while she watched the two of them being dragged out of the room. "It is."   
**  
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****  
**  
****

This had got to be the longest council meeting he had ever attended, heard about or witnessed in any other kind. Objectively, he knew that it had been only three or four hours, but that didn't mean that it didn't feel like an eternity.

Normally, he didn't mind attending council meetings or important gatherings of his guild. He was an important member of the innkeepers' council and an upright citizen (or had been before all this had started), and considered it both his – sometimes arduous – duty and his privilege. Besides, the little bit extra influence and respect he gained from it hurt neither his pride, nor his self-esteem or his business. So, essentially, he didn't have anything against it – unless he was in a situation such as this one.

How exactly one could describe his current situation he didn't really know himself. In one word, Tibron mused absent-mindedly while he listened to one of his fellow councilmen drone on and on, it would most likely best be described as "catastrophe". He wasn't picky about it, though. He was more than willing to admit that the terms "disaster" and "calamity" had some merit as well.

"… any objections from the innkeepers? Anyone? Master Tibron?" 

Tibron was shaken out of his daydreams by the insistent voice of Neran, another councilman out of Hurag's seemingly endless reservoir of supporters. If Tibron hadn't known any better, he would have suspected that the older councilmen bred them somewhere.

"Objections?" he repeated, doing his best not to appear too flustered.

"Yes, _objections_," Neran repeated, pronouncing the word as he would have for a child who had heard it for the first time. "To the proposal we have been discussing for the past hour."

Tibron nodded thoughtfully, which was really only a way to cover up his confusion. He had stopped listening to what the others were talking about right about when the secretary had announced that the former topic, "The alarming state of the public warehouses and docks and whom to blame it on", was closed, and that the next one, "Who will have to organise the next council elections and why the tanners' guild refuses to be bothered with it", was open to discussion. For all he knew, they could be discussing something entirely different by now.

"Master Tibron?" Neran asked again with a raised eyebrow. The antipathy that was audible in his voice was also visible in his eyes, and the grey-haired man didn't even try to disguise either. The older councilman simply didn't have enough personality to come up with his own reasons for disliking Tibron, and so the innkeeper had decided a long time ago that he had simply adopted Hurag's.

Tibron took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his lips. He was only hoping that he wasn't about to agree to something his fellow innkeepers would kill him for, like them paying for the refurbishing of the council chambers or something like that.

"No, Neran," he shook his head, deliberately refusing to use the other councilman's title. "There are no objections from my guild." 

"Then it is settled," another voice announced, sounding more than a little relieved and not in the mood for further arguments. Tibron winced inwardly and dropped his gaze, refusing to look at his older brother. Under different circumstances, he would have grinned at Toran, amused by his brother's weariness, but not today. "Are there any other matters that need to be addressed, or can we all go and join the festivities?"

Only a very stupid or masochistic person would have said something now, since it was widely known that Toran didn't like it when matters were discussed to death while he was presiding over council meetings. Neran, however, was apparently both, and Tibron didn't even try to hide the small grin of malicious glee when the other man opened his mouth. It might have been because he was having a really bad day, but then again, he just didn't like Neran. He and his son Damil were hot-headed and no more able to form a personal opinion than an oliphaunt could fly.

"Actually, I do have a question, Master Toran," he said respectfully, his disdain for Tibron apparently not stopping him from speaking civilly to his brother. "Do you happen to know where Master Hurag could be? I have several urgent matters that need to be brought to his attention as soon as possible."

Tibron would almost have snorted loudly. How typical of Neran to make it sound as if the entire town would be ruined if Hurag didn't take care of it, and how even more typical that the other man made it sound as if he was one of Hurag's confidants. He was not, though, for that he was neither important nor intelligent enough. The mere fact that he wasasking that question was proof of it.

"No, I do not," Toran shook his head curtly. "Master Hurag is … otherwise engaged at the moment, as I told the council at the start of this session. Is there anything else?" The other council members shook their heads mutely, and the tall man nodded, satisfied. "Very well, then. The council will reconvene in four days, after the feast is over. I expect to see all of you later this evening in the market place."

The others nodded and stood to their feet, and soon the silence was interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet, chair legs that scraped over stone tiles, rustling clothes and soft conversation that became louder by the second. Not only the younger citizens of Aberon were looking forward to the festival; even the grey-haired, dignified councilmen were chattering amongst themselves like schoolboys, discussing what they would do and where they would meet for a drink after they would have escaped their public duties and, in some cases, their wives.

The part of Tibron that hadn't lost the battle with his own anxiety and fear yet and was still working relatively normally noticed with some satisfaction that quite a few of them were planning to meet in his tavern, but the larger part of him couldn't have cared less. He needed all of his control and self-restrained to prevent himself from running out of this house, down and street and back home. It wasn't that he didn't trust his son and nephew and the ranger not to get into any trouble, but … well, he didn't trust them.

He had already taken his coat from one of the servants and was preparing to leave the hall as normally and inconspicuously as possible when he felt a presence behind him, a presence he had known for all his life and would recognise anywhere. Tibron stubbornly bit his lip and stared straight ahead, his fingers fastening the clasp of his cloak at his throat. He would ignore him, would refuse to acknowledge him, and he would go away and leave him alone.

"Tibron. A moment, please."

The blond man took a breath, asking himself if he could pretend that he hadn't heard his brother's words. Not likely, he decided a moment later, and especially not in front of the others.  
"If this is about Torel, I can assure you that he'll be in the market place this evening. Vonar and he had some things to do; the Gods only know what they are. I don't think I – or you – want to know."

There, that sounded normal enough, didn't it, Tibron decided, satisfied. One father to another, talking about their wayward sons. It sounded good, sounded normal, sounded so much like old times that he would have liked to cry.

"It's not about him," Toran shook his head fractionally, stepping forward to look his brother in the eye. "Or not only about him. Come with me to my office. We have to talk." Tibron didn't move a muscle or gave any other outward sign that he had heard him, and so Toran lowered his voice, his eyes wandering over the remaining councilmen and the servants that were slowly leaving the room. "We have to talk, brother. _Please_."

Tibron's shoulders dropped and he exhaled loudly, defeated. He knew that it should be the other way round, that the older brother should dote on the younger, but he had never been able to deny his brother anything. That didn't mean that he was blind his faults, of course, but no matter what had happened and how much Toran might have changed, he would never betray him if he talked to him like this.

"All right," he said softly, turning around and loosening his cloak once more. "Lead the way. Brother."

If Toran noticed the sting in his brother's words, he did not comment on it. He turned around without a word and walked over to the door that led to the rear part of the town hall. Another bigger, newer building was being planned at the moment, funded by all of the guilds, but considering how long it had taken them to decide whether or not it should be build in the first place, Tibron doubted that anyone would decide on a date for the start of construction any time soon.

Toran walked down one corridor and then another, Tibron dutifully trailing behind. Each guild had rooms here where the most important councilmember had offices so that they could work on important matters right here, and Tibron had been in his brother's many times since he had become one of the leading master traders. He could have walked beside his brother instead of behind him, too, but right now he needed time, time to decide what to tell him. Time to figure out a way of warning him of what was to come without saying anything, of a way that wouldn't compromise the elves or the ranger or his own family.

Tibron snorted softly just before they reached Toran's office. Damned if he knew how he should manage _that _miracle. 

Toran stopped in front of the door that led to the offices of the traders' guild, opened it and motioned his brother to follow him. The large room was dimly lit by the fire that was going in the hearth and several candles, but it was too dark for Tibron to see his brother's expression. There were several doors leading to the smaller offices, but Toran turned back around, apparently unwilling to wait. When the older man had turned fully, Tibron saw that he wasn't wearing any expression at all, and once again asked himself how he could have missed this chance in someone he knew and loved as well as his brother.

Toran opened his mouth and closed it again, and Tibron was treated to the highly unusual sight of his big brother at a loss for words. Just as before, he couldn't find it in himself to feel any amusement at all. 

"So," he finally said. "Let's talk. I don't have all evening, you know."

"No, of course you don't," Toran retorted coolly. "You wouldn't want to leave the ranger alone for too long, would you?"

Tibron felt how his heart seized up inside his chest. He slowly raised his eyes and looked his brother in the eye, realising a split second later that denying his words would do no good.  
"How did you know?" he finally asked calmly.

"I have my sources," Toran shrugged indifferently. "Hurag isn't the only one in this town who can find out the things he wishes to know." 

"Interesting that you should mention that," Tibron remarked, sounding far calmer than he felt. "Is that where the dear Hurag is? Breaking into my home with his thugs and slaughtering one whom I have taken into my house as guest and friend?"

"Don't be foolish," the other man told him sharply. "It would draw too much attention, even you must realise that. I don't know where Hurag is, nor do I care."

"'Don't be foolish'?" Tibron repeated, looking at him askance. "Don't be foolish? You _dare _tell me not to be foolish!" 

Toran had the good grace to avert his eyes in shame.   
"Brother…"

"Don't!" his younger brother exclaimed, an expression of such fury on his face that Toran fell silent almost immediately. "How dare you, Toran? How dare you speak to me like this, as if you were the parent and I the wayward child, when we both know what you have done? When we both know that you have sold your town, your guild, your friends, your _family _to Hurag of all people? When we both know that you did nothing while the elf lord's delegation was killed, while his envoy was taken captive, while the ranger and his friend were delivered to that mad lady and her equally mad captain and tortured? How dare you?"

"I did what I had to do!" Toran hissed back. "I did what I had to do to protect my wife and children, and you and your wife and children! Don't stand here and judge me when you involve my son in your … your ploys!" 

"My ploys!" Tibron was almost shouting by now. "That's rich, Toran, coming from you! All I am doing is trying to make sure our city isn't razed to the ground by the Elves or Donrag! And I did not involve Torel in anything!"

"Oh, didn't you?" Toran retorted scathingly. "Then why is he in your house, looking after a ranger he's never met before?"

"Because he knows the meaning of honour and compassion!" Tibron answered heatedly. "Because he saw what you were doing, saw where it led and what price we would have to pay! Who do you think found the ranger and his friend and brought him to me?"

Toran stared at him, momentarily stunned, but then he slowly took a step backwards until the back of his legs touched a desk, apparently glad for the support.  
"He wouldn't," he said flatly. "He wouldn't do something as stupid as that."

"Someone had to!" Tibron exclaimed. "And if not him, then who? One of Hurag's lapdogs? For the love of the Gods, think, Toran! What you are doing is suicide! The elves _will _come here and they _ will _find out what is going on and then they _will _kill all those who they think were involved in any way. If we do not help them, we are all dead."

"If we do help them, we are all dead," Toran countered. "Hurag … you don't know what he is capable of, Tibron. He will not hesitate to kill you, and Torel, and the rest of our family, and all just to punish me." 

"I know very well what Hurag is capable of," Tibron shook his head. "I have eyes to see and ears to hear. Great Ones, I own a _tavern_! I hear more than you and rest of the council put together! And besides, I have seen the ranger and his friend, and I have heard what they said about their friend, the one who was 'killed in the ambush'. How could you, Toran!" 

"How could I not?" the other man retorted softly. "He threatened my children, Tibron. I cannot protect them every second of every day; sooner or later one of his men would find them alone. Accidents do happen, especially to the young and careless. I had the choice between the three beings that mean more to me than my own life and an elf I have met only twice! Look me in the eye and tell me that your choice would have been any different!" 

"I cannot," Tibron admitted after a second. "If someone would have threatened Vonar, I might have done the same. But," he went on unerringly, "why didn't you come to me? Damn it all, Toran, are we not brothers? You used to trust me; when did that change?"

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" Toran arched an eyebrow. "Why did you not tell me that you were hiding the elf and the ranger?"

"Would you have? Knowing what I know about you, having seen what I have seen?"

Tibron's reply was blunt and to the point, and Toran couldn't help but shake his head helplessly.  
"No," he whispered softly. "No, most likely not."

Tibron shook his head as well, resisting the urge to walk over to his brother and shake some sense into him.  
"What is Hurag planning, Toran?" he asked insistently. "How much does he know? Does he know that the ranger is staying in my house?" 

"No," Toran assured him. "No, he doesn't know."

"Why not?" Tibron asked coldly, anger once again welling up inside of him. "You told him everything else so faithfully, so why didn't you tell him about this as well?"

Toran turned to look at him, his eyes bright and lost and making him look more than a confused child than Tibron would have ever thought possible.  
"Because you are my brother," he said quietly. "I could no more betray you than I could endanger my children."

Tibron closed his eyes and hung his head, his skull pounding mercilessly. This situation was so utterly wrong, so twisted, that he simply didn't know what to think or do.  
"Tell me what Hurag is planning, Toran," he asked again. "It is not too late yet. Please, brother. We can still stop this."

"No, we cannot," Toran shook his head forlornly. "We cannot, Tibron. It is too late."

"What are you talking about?" Tibron asked, a slowly building anxiety threatening to choke him. "What have you done?"

Toran didn't answer, but then he raised his head and gave his brother a blank look.  
"I had to tell him something, or he would have sent others out to look for them. So I told him about them."

"'Them'?" Tibron repeated, dread beginning to form a cold lump in his stomach. "Who is 'them', Toran?"

"The elves," the older man elaborated, some of his earlier control back in place. "I had to tell Hurag something. I couldn't tell him about the ranger without endangering you or Torel, so I told him that the elves were planning to leave the city, most likely in order to travel to Donrag."

"You told Hurag about the elves," Tibron reiterated blankly. 

"Yes," Toran nodded coolly. "I told them about the elves." 

"I see," Tibron nodded as well. "Tell me then, brother, did you also make your will? Because you will need it once the elf lord and his men arrive! For the Gods' sake, Toran," he exploded, "you betrayed his advisor, then his men and now his son! How do you think he is going to react to that?" 

"I did what I had to do," the tall man repeated stubbornly. 

"Nonsense," Tibron retorted. "That's nonsense, and you know it! You bring shame on yourself and our family; do not try to justify your actions with 'necessity'! You may be willing to sit here and pray that nothing happens, but I am not! There has to be something we can do! Tell me what Hurag did with them, Toran! Tell me where he is and how to stop this madness!" 

"No," Toran shook his head firmly. "I cannot, and I do not know where he is. Besides, it is too late now anyway."

Tibron clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to hit his older brother, an urge he had very rarely felt since he had turned sixteen. Just when he thought that he would lose that particular battle, a knock sounded on the door and servant poked his head in, looking rather apologetic.  
"I am sorry, sirs, but there is a messenger for Master Tibron at the side entrance. I told him that you were in a meeting, sir, but he said that it concerned matters important to the innkeepers' guild and couldn't wait." 

Tibron looked at his brother, almost daring him to interfere, before he nodded at the servant and turned around.  
"Thank you. Tell him I'll be right there."

The servant nodded as well and disappeared, and Tibron waited for him to pass out of earshot before he turned back to his older brother.   
"I will be back in a second. We are not finished yet, Toran. If you leave while I am gone, I will consider it a decision on your part." 

"A decision?" Toran asked, clearly confused.

"Yes, a decision," Tibron nodded. "If you leave now, I will know that you are on Hurag's side and will act accordingly."

"Are you threatening me?" his brother asked, astonished. "Me, your own brother?"

"I am warning you, _because _you are my brother," Tibron explained evenly, emotionlessly. "Do choose wisely, _brother_. I love you as I always have, but I will do what I have to do to protect our city and the guests of my house."

He turned and had disappeared down the corridor before Toran could say something. The fair-haired trader looked after him for a long time, but before he could even try to bring order into the swirling chaos that filled his head, the sounds of a commotion could be heard, a commotion that steadily drew closer.

"… told you that I cannot allow that!" a voice exclaimed, or rather whined. "He is in a meeting with his brother! I…"

"Oh, I am sure Master Tibron will not mind," another voice interrupted the first, sounding cold and calm and utterly unapologetic. "Now, where is Toran's office?"

The first voice, which Toran identified as that of the secretary who had been on duty during the council meeting, could be heard again, sounding torn between mildly fearful and annoyed.  
"_Master _Toran is not to be disturbed. You will have to wait like everyone else."

There was an unidentifiable noise then, sounding almost as if something had been pushed against the wall – hard.  
"Listen to me, human," another voice said quietly. "You will take us to Toran, _now_, or I swear by the One that I will tear this house apart until I find him. Understood?"

There was a muffled mumbling, followed by some other sounds, but before Toran's brain could process the noises and arrive at the correct conclusion, the door was thrown completely open once more and four people entered, or rather three entered and one was pushed into the room. The tall man let his eyes wander over the four newcomers, his face emotionless, before he nodded at the secretary who had more or less been propelled into the room. 

"You may leave now."

The man didn't even nod at him before he turned and fled, moving as quickly as if he had wings at his heels. Toran would have liked to watch him leave, would have liked anything better than having to look at the three beings standing in the room before him, but not even he could ignore three damp, dark-faced elves who radiated doom and anger so clearly that Toran was surprised he couldn't actually see it.

The three of them couldn't have looked more different, he noticed absent-mindedly while he looked at them, his brain still struggling with accepting the fact that they were, in fact, here. All of them were tall, bright-eyed and, as was the wont of their kind, beautiful, but otherwise they didn't have much in common. One had dark hair, the second hair of the colour of deepest gold and the third silver hair that almost looked like polished silver. Toran couldn't help but do a double-take. He had seen dark-haired elves before, and even blond ones (even though none of them had had such truly golden hair), but he'd never seen a silver-haired one.

He was brought out of his musings by the dark-haired elf, who cocked his head slightly to the side and narrowed his eyes at him, a gesture that reminded the trader eerily of a wild animal before it leapt at you.   
"Master Toran, I presume?"

"Yes," Toran nodded, swallowing quickly as if he could erase his anxiety that way. "I am Toran. Who are you?"

The question was so utterly pointless and superfluous that none of the three answered immediately, but then the dark-haired elf opened his mouth to reply, looking almost amused. The other two, Toran noticed, didn't look amused in the slightest. They looked very, very angry and not patient at all. 

"I am Elrond of Rivendell. This," he gestured at his golden-haired companion, "is Lord Glorfindel, my seneschal and the captain of my warriors, and this," he nodded at the other elf, "is Captain Celylith of Mirkwood."

There was little colour left in the man's cheeks, but what little there was disappeared now.  
"My lords," he finally croaked. "It is an honour."

"I am sure it is," Elrond said coolly. "We have some business to discuss with you and your fellow councilmen. Call them."

"They have already left," Toran retorted. "As you will have noticed, there is a festival starting today. The council won't reconvene for four days."

"What a shame," Glorfindel commented, his eyes fixed on the middle of Toran's chest, as if he was trying to figure out where to start cutting him into little pieces. "Then we'll have to talk to you, won't we?" 

That didn't sound or look very good or promising, and began to look even worse when the blond elf and his silver-haired companion took a few steps forward, slowly but surely beginning to surround him. Celylith didn't say anything and merely stared at the human, allowing a fraction of his anger to show on his face. So this was one of the men responsible for his prince's situation. Granted, he didn't even know what his prince's exact situation was, but he had no doubts whatsoever that it was neither safe nor pleasant. 

Lord Elrond stepped forward as well, his cloak swirling behind him and catching on the long sheath of his sword. Celylith had only seen him a few times in his full warrior outfit, and he had to admit that he would have hated to get on his wrong side, too. There was a sparkle in his eyes that left dangerous far behind, and Celylith wasn't surprised that Thalar and the other officers had let him go to Aberon after all.

The silver-haired elf smiled inwardly. They had arrived in Aberon some hours ago, shortly after sundown, and had watched the city for a while. After an hour or so Lord Elrond had flatly declared that he was done waiting and would go to Aberon to find someone who would tell him what was going on here. Lord Glorfindel had almost suffered a stroke and hadn't stopped arguing with him until the other elf lord had allowed him to accompany him. That, in turn, had given the rest of the officers a heart attack, but Lord Elrond had simply looked at them in that unique, menacing way of his and they had relented, even Elladan which was almost a miracle. The twin had been highly uncooperative for a while, but in the end he had relented, realising that there was nothing he could do to sway his father's mind, and he was neither reckless nor immature enough to defy his lord's will openly.

Celylith allowed himself a small, smug inner grin. The _look _hadn't worked on him, though, most likely because he was used to similar ones from his king and his father. Lord Elrond hadn't even tried to argue with him, perhaps because he realised that nothing short of a direct order from King Thranduil or one of the Valar would stop him from finding out what had happened to his prince. In the end, the three of them had left the rest of the warriors in the shadows of a small copse of trees, up on the ridge overlooking Aberon and the valley of the Mitheithel, and had travelled here as quickly as they could. The officers hadn't been happy about their lords' decision, but they had accepted it, knowing full well that the two of them knew how to defend themselves.

Oh yes, Celylith though as he watched the dark-haired elf lord step forward, moving as soundlessly and gracefully as a large cat. They most definitely knew how to defend themselves.

"Let me make one thing clear from the start," Elrond said softly, taking yet another step forward and consciously invading the man's personal space. "I do not have time for games or deception. I have had a very, very bad, wet week, and am not in the mood to be played with. All I am interested in are three things: Where the rest of my 'dead' delegation is, where my son and his men are, and whom I can kill for all this."

"My lord," Toran stammered, desperately trying to figure out how much the elf lord knew and just how he had found out about it, "I … I don't know…"

"Oh yes, you do," Elrond said coolly, in a completely emotionless tone of voice. He shot Glorfindel a quick look and decided quite indifferently that he gave his golden-haired friend approximately ten seconds before he would lose control and try to kill Toran. "You know exactly what I am talking about, Toran. I will divide the problem into smaller parts for you: One, you or the people of Donrag killed my warriors and abducted my advisor. Personally, I think it was them, but you helped them."

That was actually nothing but a hopeful guess, but Elrond's heart swelled with relief and thankfulness as the man's face turned an interesting shade of grey. For a moment, the half-elf looked at his golden-haired friend, and couldn't help but smile when he saw the quickly hidden joy dance over his tense features. The Valar be thanked, he thought ardently. He hadn't even wanted to think about what he would do if he would have had to tell Glorfindel that his hopes had been in vain and that Erestor was really dead.

"Two," he went on, "you lured one of my sons here, pretending not to know what had happened. You consciously and deliberately misled us and lied to us, and are at least partly responsible for the deaths of those under my command and my protection. I want to see my son and I want to hear an explanation, Master Toran, and I would advise you to think carefully before you answer. I am not in the mood for further deception, and neither are my companions."

"I … I don't know where your son is," Toran shook his head. "He and his men have disappeared, and I don't know where they are. I don't know anything about any of your advisors, and neither do my fellow councilmen." 

He wanted to say more, but before he could even blink, a long white hand appeared in his field of vision and grasped the front of his tunic. Half a second later he was lifted off his feet and slammed into something hard and unyielding that turned out to be a wall, all air draining out of his lungs. When he had managed to suck enough air into his lungs to think, he looked up, straight into a pair of darkened blue eyes that were as cold and hard as a pair of sapphires. There was nothing to be seen in their dark orbs but the promise of pain and death, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, the fear he felt of Hurag was dwarfed by something darker, older and infinitely more terrible.

"Listen to me, human," Glorfindel hissed at the wide-eyed human, his patience spent and his control finally frazzled. "Listen to me carefully. The elf you so callously talk about, the advisor you know nothing about, is my friend. His name is Erestor, and he has people who care about him and a life far away from this pathetic place! You will tell me what you know about his whereabouts and those who ambushed him and his men, and you will tell me now, or I swear by the light of the Lady's stars that I will snap your neck, right here, right now."

"I … can't!" Toran protested weakly as the elf's hand began to close around his throat more firmly. "I don't know anything, and … Hurag would kill me!"

"Hurag?" Elrond asked as he stepped closer. He made, however, no move to stop his golden-haired seneschal who, right now, looked very much like the warriors the half-elf could remember from earlier, more merciless times. "Your fellow master trader?"

"Yes," Toran nodded frantically, as much as a person being slowly strangled could nod, that was. "He … he would … kill me!"

"That should be the least of your problems, _adan_," Glorfindel told the weakly struggling man in a silky tone of voice that made Celylith very glad that he was on his side. "There are many, many things worse than death in this world. And you know what?" He leaned closer until his face was only a few inches away from Toran's. "I can do all of them."

"Listen to him," Elrond told the man in a completely unemotional tone of voice. "He _does _know how to do all of them." 

"I … I can't…" Toran trailed off as the golden-haired elf's hand closed more firmly around his throat, involuntarily gasping at the increased pressure. "Your … your son left the … city," he finally managed to croak. "He and his … men, they … left this … afternoon…"

"A good start," Elrond nodded coolly, either ignoring or oblivious to the man's struggles to draw breath. "Now, where did they go? Did all of them leave, or did some of them stay behind? The ranger maybe, or his blond friend?" Toran's mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out, and the dark-haired elf looked at his friend reproachfully. "Glorfindel. Please."

The golden-haired elf loosened his grip ever so slightly.   
"Forgive me, my lord."

He didn't sound overly repentant, though, but Elrond didn't even care. There weren't many things he cared about at the moment, and the question of whether or not Glorfindel enjoyed strangling random humans was certainly not one of them.

"Go on," he told the man with a cold smile. "What did you want to say about Strider?"

"He and his friend…" Toran began, hyperventilating slightly as he tried to draw enough air into his lungs. "They…"

"Yes?" Elrond prompted, trying to ignore the way his stomach knotted in a very unsettling manner. "What about them?" Toran didn't answer immediately, and Elrond nodded at Glorfindel once more. "You would do well to remember my friend's words. He hasn't bluffed for centuries."

"They are … dead," Toran finally gasped. "A fire … in the house they were staying in … your son escaped, but they … they didn't…" 

Glorfindel's fingers closed once again around his neck with bruising force, and the man's words were cut off. Elrond paid neither them nor the white-faced Celylith any heed as he stared straight ahead, desperately trying to get a hold of his emotions. He had no reason to trust Toran – he would, in fact, have rather believed Sauron if he had told him that he wanted to take a seat on the White Council. Then again, he didn't think that Toran was a coward, but only very few very brave or desperate people would dare lie to Glorfindel when he was in this kind of mood.

No, Elrond told himself firmly. His son was not dead, and neither was Legolas. He would _not _believe otherwise until he saw their bodies, and even then he would make absolutely sure it was them. 

"You are lying," he said, doing his best to infuse his words with some sort of confidence. "They aren't dead. You are lying."

"I … am … not," the fair-haired man croaked, his face turning a highly interesting red colour that was beginning to border on purple. "The house … it … burned down."

"Yes, maybe," Elrond nodded, far more calmly than he felt. "But they are not dead. You know they are not. I know they are not. Why do you insist on lying when all of us know the truth?"

"I … I cannot…"

"You are right," another voice announced behind them, and Elrond and Celylith slowly and deliberately turned around. Glorfindel, however, did no such thing, and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the man he was pinning to the wall. Tibron watched the three elves in front of him with an odd mixture of trepidation and relief as he slowly stepped into the room, making sure to keep his hands where they could see them. "They are not dead."

"Tibron, _be silent_!" Toran hissed, staring wildly at his brother.

"No, Toran, I will not be silent!" the younger man shook his head. "There is too much at stake here, for all of us!" He turned to Elrond who looked back at him with an intense, thoroughly disconcerting expression on his face. "The ranger and his friend aren't dead, my lord, at least not yet. Hurag had someone set fire to the house they were staying in and it burned down, yes, but they weren't in it. Hurag had them brought to Donrag, where they were … interrogated. He is a spy for Donrag, and has been for years." 

"'Interrogated'," the dark-haired elf repeated softly, in a tone of voice Toran had never wanted to hear. "Why don't you say what you want to say, Master Tibron?"

"Very well, my lord," Tibron relented, fighting a strange feeling of surrealism. "If you insist. They were tortured until they managed to escape."

Tibron had barely finished the sentence when he was grasped and forcefully shoved against the wall, and he decided wearily that he would stop counting how often this happened to him. Most elves he met seemed to watch it as some sort of hobby.

The elf who was pinning him against a wall this time was silver-haired, blue-eyed and very, very angry. There was an utterly uncompromising expression on his face that Tibron found harder to bear than a grimace of fury would have been.

"Who tortured them?" Celylith asked so coldly that Tibron couldn't help but wish for a blanket. "I want an answer, human. Who dared lay hands on them?"

"One of their captains," Tibron answered as clearly as he could, sensing that this elf was in no mood for games or delays. "His name is Gasur, and he is … well, mad."

"No," the silver-haired elf shook his head coldly and very seriously. "He is dead."

"That is enough, _pen-neth_," Elrond's voice interrupted him, causing him to look up sharply. "Release him. Master Tibron had nothing to do with what happened to your … friend." Celylith narrowed his eyes at the human in front of him but obeyed, and Elrond took a step forward once the innkeeper had managed to regain his breath. "They are not dead, you say? You swear it?"

"Yes, my lord," Tibron nodded, doing his best to hide a small smile. If this elf lord's son considered the ranger a brother, then he would consider the boy his son, and he knew everything about worrying for your son. "I swear it by the Gods."

"That doesn't change one very important fact, though," Glorfindel spoke up again, his full attention still fixed on Toran whom he was pinning to the wall. "That you are a spy, too. You spied on your own people and on us, you were in league with … what was his name? … yes, with Hurag, and through him with Donrag. You betrayed your own town as well as her guests! Because of you my men were killed, my friend captured and those I care about tortured!" 

"I didn't have a choice," Toran retorted, his voice sounding a little bit stronger now. "He threatened me and my family!"

"Oh yes, you did!" the golden-haired elf exclaimed, thunderous fury laying itself over his pale features. "All of us have choices, _all _of us! Whether we are elves, or humans, or dwarves, or hobbits, or even orcs and trolls, we can always choose! Every second of every day we can choose our fates; every second we can decide which way our life will turn! We always have choices; we only choose not to choose, out of fear or arrogance or complacency! You damned well had a choice, and you know what? You made the wrong one!"

The elf's hand once again closed around the man's throat, but a moment later Tibron had rushed forward, stopping next to Glorfindel and looking at him imploringly.  
"Please, Master Elf, let him go." Glorfindel ignored him, fury tingeing his vision a bloody red, and Tibron gathered all his courage and reached out with a hand, wrapping his fingers around the elf's forearm. "Please, my lord, let him go, I beg you. Let him live, and I promise you that I will tell you all I know. Please."

"Why?" Glorfindel asked, so softly that the man could hardly understand him. "Why should I? He is a spy, and a traitor!"

"Yes," Tibron nodded wearily, infinite sadness filling his heart. "Yes, he is. But he is also my brother, and I love him nonetheless." 

Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, but then he released the trader and took a step backwards as if he was afraid to come into further contact with him. Whether that decision had been prompted by the dark look Elrond had given him or by Tibron's imploring stare, Tibron didn't know, especially since Glorfindel kept shooting both of them dark glares. 

Tibron took a deep breath, did his best to ignore the golden-haired elf's looks, and began to tell the three elves everything he knew. It wasn't all that much, he'd admit that, but that still didn't explain why the blond one started staring at him the exact moment he mentioned that the elf lord's advisor was still alive. That was the moment he found himself once again with his back against the wall, staring up into the face of the golden-haired elf, wishing for the ground to swallow him up and asking himself just how someone could look _this _angry.

"He is still alive?" Glorfindel asked, quite clearly doing his best to stop himself from grasping the front of the man's shirt and pushing his back through the wall. "Are you sure, human?"

"Uhm … yes," Tibron nodded, swallowing quickly against his suddenly parched throat. "I mean, he was still alive when the ranger and his friend escaped. After that, I cannot tell you anything with any amount of certainty."

"When was that exactly?" the golden-haired elf demanded to know, inching yet another bit closer and awaking in the man the very potent wish to shrink to the size of a mouse. "When did they escape?"

"Almost two days ago," Tibron answered, his eyes not leaving the elf lord's face. He was half-expecting him to reach out and shake him like a dog would a rat. "My son and nephew found them in the night two days ago and brought them to my house. They had escaped the day before, so they left Donrag about three days ago."

"Three days," Glorfindel repeated, taking a step backwards, much to Tibron's relief. "That is a long time."

Tibron only shrugged helplessly, not knowing what he should say to that, and returned his attention to the elf's lord. It wasn't that he couldn't understand the fair-haired one's grief and worry, but he found it more relaxing and comforting to deal with someone who would most likely not pick you up and shake you if you answered a question to their dissatisfaction.

"My seneschal meant no disrespect," said elf said in this moment. Glorfindel merely glanced at his friend and lord and didn't really look as if he agreed with his assessment. "We are in your debt, then, for saving my … the ranger and his friend."

"It was the least I could do," Tibron said with a side-look at Toran, who was standing forlornly a few feet away from him. The older man looked quite a lot as if he just couldn't understand what was going on around him. "But you do not understand, my lord. You must help your son, now, before it is too late."

Toran seemed to awake from his paralysis and shook his head at his brother.  
"Tibron, do not…"

He didn't get any further. Glorfindel just took a step into his direction and he fell silent again, but even if he hadn't, Tibron would have answered him, his patience finally spent.

"Be silent, brother!" he hissed at the older man, pushing all understanding and sympathy to the side. "I cannot watch while you dishonour our family for generations to come! I cannot, and I will not." 

"What do you mean, Master Tibron?" Elrond asked, sounding very calm and composed. "I thought my son had left the city?"

"Yes, he has," Tibron nodded. "But Hurag … was informed about this. Your son wanted to free your advisor, as I told you, but Hurag will have intercepted him and his men. He might not have killed them instantly, but I don't think he will allow them to reach Donrag; that witch-lady would have his head. I do not know what happened to them, or where they might have been taken." 

The three elves didn't even need a second to put two and two together and come to the right conclusion, and only Elrond's hand that shot out with lightning speed stopped Glorfindel from once again grasping Toran by the throat. This time, though, he would have crushed his windpipe instantaneously, at least judging by the truly thunderous expression on his face.

"He was 'informed' about this," the blond elf remarked scathingly, eyeing the visibly intimidated figure of Toran in the manner of a cat that had just cornered a juicy mouse. He obviously thought about shaking off Elrond's hand, but seemed to decide against it, either because of his friend's steely grip or because he thought it a display unworthy of an elf lord in front of two humans and an elf his junior. "By whom, I wonder?"

"I do not have to tell you, and you do not have to ask," Tibron answered helplessly, giving the dark-haired elf lord and his seneschal a frightened, calculating look. He didn't think that the blond one would try to escape his lord's grasp, but it didn't hurt to be prepared. "Just know that he didn't betray the ranger. He is safe in my house, and my son and nephew are seeing to it that no harm comes to him."

"Estel … I mean, Strider is here?" Elrond asked, a little too eagerly, and even Celylith who had done little but glare at Toran looked up. "He hasn't left the town?"

"No," Tibron shook his head and looked for a way to put things delicately. "He couldn't. His friend's wounds healed quickly, even though he was far from hale when he left, but the boy's didn't. He's healing more quickly than any man I have ever seen, the Gods know why, but he was not up to going anywhere, least of all stealthily and on horseback."

"Strider never goes anywhere stealthily," Celylith mumbled softly, more to himself than to the other people in the room. "He cannot, because he gets involved in some sort of calamity before he has even taken the third step."

"You could say that," Tibron nodded, smiling the first real smile in some time.

Elrond shot both of them a look that would have frozen the ears off a mountain hare.

"If it is as you say – and I have no reason to suspect that it isn't," he quickly added, seeing the truly hurt look on the man's face, "then I owe you my thanks." He turned and exchanged a quick look with Glorfindel, before he returned his attention to Toran, who looked about as lost as a hobbit would have looked in Mordor. "I believe you when you say that you do not know where they might have been taken, Master Tibron. The problem is that I do not believe that the same is the case for your brother."

"I don't know anythi…" Toran began, but fell silent when all the other beings in the room glared at him in a way that would have made a Nazgûl intensely proud or very jealous.

"Please, Master Toran," Elrond said in a very silky tone of voice that sounded very, very scary. "Remember my earlier words. My patience is at an end, and so is that of my companions – especially that of my seneschal." 

Glorfindel only looked at the fair-haired human and gave him a smile, a smile that was dark and angry and so disconcerting that Tibron had to avert his eyes almost immediately. There was something terrible and utterly merciless in those fathomless blue eyes, and the innkeeper had no desire to see it a second longer than he absolutely had to.

Toran seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he lowered his head and slowly exhaled, defeated.  
"The salt-mines. They told me they would take them to the salt-mines. I haven't heard from Hurag since noon, though; I do not know if they really took them there or if they managed to capture them at all. This is the truth, you must believe me."

"I must do no such thing," the half-elf informed the man curtly. "But, in this case, I am inclined to do so." He was silent for a moment, obviously contemplating his options, and finally turned back to Tibron. "What kind of assurance do I have that my men will not be harmed if they enter your town?"

Tibron would have laughed aloud if he hadn't been so scared.   
"None, my lord."

It was an answer neither Glorfindel nor Celylith liked, and even while the two of them were taking a threatening step closer to him Tibron raised his hands in placation.  
"Please, my lords, you misjudge my importance and position. I am not even the main speaker of my guild. I acted as such today, but only because another master took ill and could not attend. Gods, he keep sending me messages, telling me what to do and say! I cannot give you any guarantees that will be heeded by the rest of the council. My guild might listen to my recommendations, but that's about it. All I can promise you is that I will take you to a gate that will not be guarded. I am sorry."

"That is not enough," Elrond shook his head. "I appreciate your help, Master Tibron, but I cannot lead my men here in good conscience after everything that has happened. We will take the ranger and leave. We will free my son and his men and my advisor, thus giving you time to sort all this here out. Then we will come back, and hopefully speak to more reasonable council members than today."

The look he shot Toran at those words needed no comment or explanation. A moment later he returned his attention to Tibron.  
"One more thing, Master Tibron. Hurag. Where is he?" 

"I do not know, my lord, and neither does my brother, I am certain," the tall man assured him. "Please, Master Elf, I speak the truth. We do not know; no one does. If I didn't know any better, I would say he has left the town, even though I am at a loss to explain why."

"It is of no consequence," Elrond said after a moment, dismissing the matter. He had more important things to focus on than revenge right now. "We will deal with him later. If you would take us to your house, Master Tibron, we will be gone in less than half and hour. If your brother doesn't inform his … colleagues, that is."

"Oh, he won't," Celylith spoke up again, managing to sound almost as menacing as Glorfindel had earlier. "Will you, human?"

Toran was still shaking his head fervently, more than a little cowed by now, when a knock sounded on the half-open door. A second later a servant stuck his head into the room, looking as if he had plucked up all his courage for this single act. Tibron couldn't blame him, though. He didn't even want to know what this conversation sounded like.

"Excuse me, sirs," the man began, his eyes darting from Toran to Tibron to the elves, "but there is another messenger for Master Tibron." 

Even though the servant was clearly terrified, he managed to sound slightly reproachful. Just how could Master Tibron allow himself to be disturbed twice in less than half an hour, and on the eve of their most popular festival at that?

Tibron only nodded at him, trying to get him out of this room as quickly as possible. He was an innkeeper, after all, and knew very well how quickly rumours could spread.  
"Please, send him in," he told the other man, reluctant to leave his brother alone with the elves. They just might try to kill him. "I will see him here."

The servant gave the three far too even-faced elves a suspicious look, but then he nodded as well, soundlessly withdrawing from the room. A few moments later he was back, accompanied by a man Tibron knew only too well.

"Giras!" he exclaimed, surprise and dread filling his heart to equal parts. He dismissed the servant and gestured his employee to step closer and close the door. "What are you doing here? Has something happened to my son?"

"No, sir," Giras shook his head, trying not to look too awed at the sight of the elves. "At least, I don't think so."

"Speak plainly, man!" Tibron demanded, the fear inside his breast multiplying exponentially. "What are you talking about?"

"Your son sent me with a message for you, sir," Giras replied, not too put-off by his employer's shortness. "He didn't want to write something down, so he bade me tell you that he, young Master Torel and the ranger were leaving the house to 'find something out'."

"To 'find something out'?" Tibron, Toran and Elrond bellowed at the same time. "Have they completely lost their senses?" Tibron added, aghast.

"Well, if you'll forgive me for saying so, sir, yes, I think so," Giras answered. "It was the ranger, though. He all but dragged them away, even though I couldn't say how he managed to stay on his feet. Said he couldn't tell me what he suspected, but that if he was right, they had to stop them." 

"Stop whom?" Elrond demanded to know in a tired tone of voice.

"I don't know, my lord," Giras shook his head, trying to project the air of someone who had dealings with elf lords all the time. "He was most insistent, though."

"Yes, he can be," the dark-haired elf lord muttered softly. He fell silent for a moment before he raised his head again and looked at Tibron. "Is there any chance we can find them?"

"Today?" Tibron laughed incredulously. "You have seen the streets, haven't you, my lord? All of Aberon is gathering for the festival. Even if we knew where they'd gone, we would need a few hours to reach them! I know a lot of people, and even a lot who owe me favours, but today there is nothing I or anyone else can do."

Elrond didn't answer immediately and just stared at the wall panelling behind Tibron's head – something that made the man decidedly uncomfortable. A few second later he returned his attention to the fair-haired man, his face carefully expressionless. Even his eyes were blank.  
"Then there is nothing we can do. The Valar know that I do not want to leave him behind, but we are in no position to aid him right now. Elrohir and the others need our help; we can only hope that he will be all right."

As much as Tibron hated to admit it, but the elf lord was right. There was no way they would find the three of them today, none at all. They were all grown-up, and they would have to trust in their ability to look after themselves. A small voice in his head started laughing uproariously at that, but he rigorously pushed it aside. Now was _not _the time to listen to the voice of experience.

"Estel will be fine, my lord," Celylith said, trying to reassure the half-elf. "He can look after himself. Unless he and my pr… he and Legolas are together. He will be fine."

"I hope so, Celythramirion," Elrond nodded with a small, somewhat pained smile. "Varda Elentári, I hope so."

"I will try to find them, my lord," Tibron assured the dark-haired elf. "I know that the chances of finding them are slim, but I can move much more easily in this city than you. If there is a way of locating them, I will find it."

"Thank you, Master Tibron," Elrond smiled forcedly. "Your help is much appreciated." He exchanged a quick look with Glorfindel who had shortly looked up from glaring at Toran. "We will leave you now. Once again I thank you for your help. If we should manage to find my son and free Lord Erestor, it will be largely due to your willingness to do the right thing." 

Tibron lowered his head and asked himself why doing the right thing cost you so much.  
"Do not speak of it, my lord. Your son and the others talked highly of your advisor. Even though there was only a small chance of success, they were willing to risk everything to free him. That tells me all I need to know."

"Yes, it does," Elrond smiled, this time without darkness lurking in his eyes. "He is a good and loyal person, and my friend. We will find him."

Tibron merely nodded as Elrond turned around, moving over to the door. Celylith gave the humans in the room a last dark look before he began to follow the elf lord, so that only Glorfindel remained behind, staring at Toran with disconcerting intensity. After several moments that felt like an eternity he spoke, his darkened blue eyes not leaving the man's face and his voice level and serious and utterly uncompromising.

"If I come back without him and you are here…" He trailed off and shook his head. "Don't be here."

He turned without another word and strode out of the room, leaving behind a cold, stony silence, three men with no illusions at all about his sincerity and a sense of danger that was impossible to deny or disregard.

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TBC...

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_lyg - snake  
adan - human, man  
pen-neth - young one_

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Once again, I am sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. Finding a flat here and not going insane is not all that easy - I know a few people who arrived with me (so about 1 1/2 weeks ago) and are still looking. •grimaces• Anyway, I wanted to put Aragorn into this chapter, too, but then I realised that I had already 33 pages and decided against it. He'll be in the next one, though, and so will be Elladan, Glorfindel, Meneldir, Elrond, Celylith and the others. And Celylith might get a new pet. •g• So, stay tuned, and thanks for your patience! As always: Review? Yes, please!

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**Additional A/N:  
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**Sorry, guys, no review responses today. Everything is still very chaotic right now and I would have needed another two days until I'd answered all of them. I thought that you'd rather have the chapter now. •g•**

So, I thank: Deana, Jazmin3 Firewing, Sarah (fuer alle 300 mails •g•), Inuyashaloverfan, Imbecamiel (nice to see you again!), HarryEstel, CrazyLOTRfan, Dreamzone, Ruby Dragon, Fire-forged, Slayer3, Ali64, UniCornVampire3z, MaddyPaddy, Adre, Maerz86, CrazyAZN Kid, Celebdil-Galad and Tinlaure, Scorn, Kitti Marlowe, Sanaryelle, Invisigoth3, QueenofFlarmphgal, Ainu Laire (thanks for the newest installment of the Mary-Sue Academy from Hell!), LegolasGreenleafGil-Estel, Madam Librarian, J-mercuryuk, Sielge, BK 13, MysticofGermany and, last but not least, Marbienl.

Just because I didn't reply to you, don't think that I didn't appreciate your reviews! I did - always do! I will reply to the next ones again, I promise, just don't forget to include your email addresses or sign in before you review! Thanks again! 


	32. In Medias Res

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Yes, well. Hey guys. Long time no see, huh? Before you reach for various weapons and/or begin to sic balrogs/dragons/wargs etc. on me, let me explain. This time, I DID have a very good explanation for all this. To make a long story short: Despite the warning everyone does receive when he/she comes to Madrid (something like "Never take anything REALLY valuable with you and DON'T leave your bag anywhere!"), I put my bag on the floor next to my seat when my friends and I went to a cafe. It goes without saying that, two minutes later, it was gone. With my ID card, my driver's license, my bank account card, my insurance company card, my money, my MP3 player, my mobile ... everything. And the worst thing was that my Wireless Internet card was also gone, because I was actually being nice for once. It's a complicated story.**

Well, it took me some time to organise some money and get everything replaced. Then, when I had just accomplished that miracle (do you have any idea how much fun it is to make a report at a Spanish police station if you don't really speak Spanish?), university started, sending me into another state of rather mindless panic. There are some classes where I really understand only about 30 percent of what's going on around me. If I'm lucky, that is. And THEN there are all the parties I have to go to... •sighs• I know, I know. My life is hard.

Anyway, please do not believe that I have abandoned this story. I have not, and I will not. I just don't have enough time to finish it as quickly as I'd like. You just have to give me some more time than usual - which doesn't mean that you shouldn't send me emails and/or reviews and prod me. That really helps.

Okay, enough of that. Here is another monster chapter (another 35 pages!), which doesn't really surprise me. At the end of the stories the characters never shut up! We have a conversation between Meneldir and Dólion, find out what the latter's name means, see Elladan and Glorfindel again, find out what Aragorn's up to (no, it's not very intelligent) and learn more about Elrohir's and Legolas' ingenous escape plan (no, it's not very intelligent either). Plus, Celylith finds another adorable, sweet little creature in need of care and sympathy. Oh, and the title follows that whole "Latin theme" I started some chapters ago, and means, freely translated, "Into the middle of things". Which is where all our elves/rangers now are. •evil grin•

Have fun and review, please!

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Chapter 32  
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**Meneldir was beginning to think that his mother had been correct after all. Well, of course she had been – if there was one thing he had learned in his life (which had been neither uneventful nor short), it was that mothers were _always _right, without exception.

Well, the blond elven captain amended a moment later, maybe not really always. His mother had, for example, more than once told him what a "nice, pretty maiden" Gaerîn was – something that was only half-true. The red-haired healer might be pretty – even more than pretty, at least in his opinion – but she definitely wasn't nice. She was in fact anything but, and, as one of his friends had once so concisely put it, would tell even Fëanor how he should forge his Silmarils.

His mother might have been right, however, when she had told him that he should not, under any circumstances, become a warrior. Meneldir smiled inwardly. His mother had told him that countless times, since he had been about twenty-five and until he had reached his majority and entered warrior training. Considering that he had been playing "elf and orc" since he had been able to walk, it had been a lost battle from the very start, but that hadn't stopped his mother. Nothing ever had, and he dreaded the day something would. 

He usually was an obedient son (or so he liked to believe), but the whole Gaerîn-would-make-such-a-nice-addition-to-the-family-shouldn't-your-father-talk-to-her-parents thing was one of the only two things he had ever truly denied his mother. The other one was the question of his profession – he had evidently not become an artist.

If he had, the fair-haired elf mused darkly, then he wouldn't be in this particular situation. He really, really should have listened to his mother. Yes, it was true that he didn't possess a shred of artistic talent – the only thing he could do well was sing, but that was true for almost all elves – but that wouldn't necessarily have been a problem. He could have founded a new art movement, called it "abstract" or something like it and spent his life painting or sculpturing instead of getting shot at, cut, manhandled, kidnapped, tied up and locked up.

Ah, the more sarcastic part of him asked rhetorically, but where would be the fun in that?

"Sir?" a voice asked to his left. It might have been the fact that he couldn't see the speaker or just their general very bleak situation, but to Meneldir's ears it sounded rather timid. "Commander?"

Meneldir shook himself out of his thoughts. He didn't really know what was actually scarier – their current situation or the thought of being married to Gaerîn. No, he amended a moment later, he _did _know what was scarier. Against a dark, bat-infested, smelly, cold, damp, abandoned mine-shaft, the red-haired healer would win every time. He had no idea how Captain Isál could be in love with her; he had to be either the bravest of most insane person he had ever met, he wasn't quite sure which.

"Yes, Dólion?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. It was almost too dark to make out the younger elf's features, and without the faint light that their bodies emitted it would have been pitch black. It might have been only him, but he had the very disconcerting feeling that said light had already become dimmer.

The other commander didn't answer immediately. It was clear that he had actually spoken to break the silence that lay over the small room even heavier than the darkness, and that he didn't really know what to say. 

"What were you thinking about, sir?" he finally asked, doing his best not to sound like a lost elfling and failing.

Meneldir grinned slightly, even despite everything that had happened, and leaned back against the rough stone wall at his back, his long hair that had long since come loose of its braids catching on small, protruding stones.   
"That we could be worse off, my friend."

"Oh?" Dólion asked, and Meneldir could almost hear the faintly arched eyebrow. He sounded torn between amusement, sarcasm and disbelief, and the fair-haired commander immediately decided that he had apparently spent too much time in the twins' or Estel's company. "How, pray tell? I have to admit that I am unable to imagine a less pleasing scenario." 

Meneldir considered telling him about something else – he didn't really know why himself, but he didn't like telling other people that his mother had almost married him off to Gaerîn – but then he decided that it was very possible that he wouldn't live to see the next sunrise and that telling the truth couldn't hurt.  
"When I was younger, my mother wanted me to marry Lady Gaerîn. Her mother and my own are friends, and they thought the prospect highly desirable."

"A Elbereth," Dólion mouthed. Meneldir couldn't decide whether the younger commander sounded impressed or downright horrified. "How did you escape that particular fate? Sir?"

"Why, Dólion," Meneldir began, amused, "one could come to the conclusion that you do not like Lady Gaerîn."

"I have nothing but the highest regard for her, sir," the dark-haired elf assured his colleague. "But she would tell Fëanor how to…" 

"…forge his jewels," Meneldir finished the sentence for him, smiling into the darkness. "Or Vairë how to weave her tapestries, or Morgoth how to create his armies. Yes, I know."

"She is very … formidable," Dólion agreed.

Meneldir's smile grew, and he decided that "formidable" was one of the more flattering descriptions he had heard of Gaerîn's character. He had to agree, though. She _was _formidable, and even despite her sometimes overbearing manner kind and friendly. She also possessed a sense of humour he found rather pleasing. He wouldn't call himself one of her friends, but since their mothers were childhood friends knew her well enough to know that there was no one he would rather have take care of one of his injuries, except maybe Lord Elrond himself.

"Yes," he nodded softly, struck by the intense wish to be back home and, most importantly, far away from here, "yes, she is."

Once more it was a silent for a few moments before Dólion spoke up again, desperately hoping that he didn't sound like an elfling who was afraid of the dark. He was not, he told himself firmly. By the Valar, but he was not.  
"Do you think they're all right?"

Meneldir didn't have to ask of whom the younger elf was talking, and the same question was dancing through his thoughts as well. The men had, in an act of actual cleverness, separated the two of them from their warriors, apparently having decided that it would be better to keep them apart from their men.

They were right, of course, even though he was loathe to admit it. Even though he was not so sure that they would have found a way to escape if they had been with their warriors, they would at least not have had to worry about them the entire time. Whether the men had separated them just for spite and because they thought it safer or because they knew that a good commander always worried about his men more than about himself, he did not know, nor did he overly care, if he was perfectly honest. Fact was that he didn't know where his men were or if they were all right, and that was enough to make him go slowly out of his mind.

"Yes," he finally said firmly, more to reassure himself than Dólion. "I am sure they are. It wouldn't make sense to let us live and harm them."

It did make sense, though, more than a little bit actually, and both of them knew it. Dólion might be young still, at least in the eyes of their kind, but he had seen enough to know that keeping your enemies alive if you didn't have to was dubious at best and stupid at worst. These people needed the two of them alive, apparently, but that didn't mean that they needed their men, too. Keeping the two of them, the officers, alive was one thing, but keeping their men alive, too, would at least be dangerous. The humans seemed to know that controlling even one elf was hard work, and that attempting to control a group of eight elves was far more trouble than it was worth. 

Dólion took a deep breath and sharply shook his head. They were alive, and he would not allow himself to think any differently.  
"No," he agreed with the older commander. "It wouldn't make sense."

Meneldir smiled at the determined voice of the younger elf, and at the stubborn glint he could almost see in his eyes. The boy – he really had to stop thinking about him like that, he told himself not for the first time – was not stupid, and he knew very well that was he was saying was, at least, wishful thinking.

"Don't worry about them, Dólion," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He knew that the other's nerves were frazzled, and the dark-haired elf seemed to hate the darkness even more than he did. "They will be just fine and waiting for us to get them out of this mess. Then again, if I know Ingvaer at all, he will already have come up with two dozen wonderful plans to escape."

"True," Dólion admitted after a moment, sounding far from convinced. "His plans usually involve a piece of string or a set of picklocks, though. He isn't Annorathil's nephew for nothing, after all."

"Yes, I do believe the dear Annorathil has corrupted him," Meneldir agreed semi-cheerfully. "His sister wasn't too happy about it, or so I've heard."

"I can imagine," Dólion nodded in the darkness, the gesture nothing more than a vague, flickering motion in the inky blackness that surrounded them. He was silent for a moment, but then he added, somewhat hesitantly, "Do you want me to check the room once again, sir? Perhaps there is something we missed."

If it hadn't been so completely unbefitting, Meneldir would have laughed. He was sure that there were a lot of things they had missed – even elven eyesight got you only so far – but he was equally sure that there was nothing that could aid them in any way.

"No, _mellon nín_," the fair-haired elf told his younger companion, "No, I do not think that that would do us any good. We have searched it to the best to our abilities twice already, and I seriously doubt that anything important will have changed."

Dólion nodded again rather eagerly, and Meneldir couldn't blame him. After the men had thrown them in here, they had tried to find a way out – a door, a crack in the rocks, a ventilation shaft, anything. After nearly an hour of searching the small, dark space (with your hands bound behind you not an easy task!), they had once again discovered that their captors might be many things – among them idiotic, suicidal, delusional and not half as funny as their leader thought them to be – but that they weren't stupid.

Meneldir sighed inwardly. There had been nothing, nothing at all. The room they had not-so-gently been shoved into was small, roughly rectangular, dark and nothing more. It had apparently been a natural formation before the humans had enlarged it, a kind of long, vertical fissure in the rock that surrounded it. There were no other exits beside the door through which they had entered, and nothing they could use to force the very solid oaken door open. Meneldir guessed that this was a kind of storeroom, which was only logical since they were still relatively close to the entrance of the mines. He hadn't been able to see much of the shafts on their way here – not that he would have wanted to, anyway – but it had been enough so that he would be able to find his way back out.

That still didn't solve a very important problem, he mused darkly, or rather two very important problems. He didn't know where his men had been taken or if they were even alive, and he had no idea how they should get out of this room. If they had Annorathil here with them, or even his nephew, they would at least have a chance, but neither of them was overly skilled in lock-picking. With their hands bound behind them, it was hopeless.

A small, fluttering sound reached his ear and would almost have caused him to startle, but he was slowly beginning to get used to it. With an inward sigh of annoyance, Meneldir revised his earlier statement. It wasn't entirely correct that there wasn't another exit – there was one, about five or six metres above them. It was a small hole – or that was what they thought, since it was too dark to see so far up the wall – and was apparently used by the local bat population. Why exactly they needed to get into this room, Meneldir didn't understand (there was absolutely nothing here, after all), but apparently they did. The two elves were still enough not to bother the animals, and so they had quickly begun to enter and leave the cave-like room with annoying frequency. 

Next to him, Dólion shifted somewhat nervously.  
"I _hate _these damned things," he declared passionately.

"I'm not too fond of them either," Meneldir admitted more nonchalantly than he really felt. He knew that it was just a stupid childhood fear, but every time he saw a bat he had to think of Thuringwethil, Sauron's vampire messenger who had perished in the destruction of Tol-in-Gaurhoth – or at least that was what everybody was hoping. "They are too … fluttery."

"Fluttery," Dólion repeated deadpan. "I see."

"You had better not be smiling, Dólion," Meneldir admonished the younger elf, once again beginning to tug at his bonds. He really, really didn't like bats, and by the sound of it, there were quite a few entering their little prison right now. "You are lucky that I can't see you properly at the moment," he added, grumbling.

"Not only me, sir," the dark-haired elf answered in a voice that was almost cheeky. "We wouldn't want to see all those … fluttery things, would we? Sir."

"Just you wait," Meneldir told him as darkly as he could. "Just you wait, Dólion. We will get out of here and I will find a way to have you reassigned to a scouting mission to the Cape of Forochel, mark my words." He looked at his younger companion, struggling to make out his features. "We _will _get out of here."

"Yes, sir," Dólion once again replied, doing his best to infuse his voice with some sort of conviction. "Of course we will."

"Good." Meneldir nodded firmly and leaned back against the rock wall at his back. "Now that this is settled, we can talk about more important things. There is something I have always wanted to ask you." 

"There is?" the other elf asked.

"Indeed," Meneldir replied seriously. "I never got round to it, but considering our current situation…"

"Go on, sir," Dólion encouraged the other commander, torn between mild dread and curiosity. Just what could it be that the older commander had always wanted to ask him?

"As you wish," Meneldir inclined his head fractionally. He paused for a moment to add some more drama, and finally asked in a calm, serious voice, "Where does your name come from?"

Meneldir didn't have to see the other's face to know that his mouth fell open and he was staring at him with wide eyes.  
"My … name?" Dólion finally asked incredulously.

"Yes, your name," Meneldir affirmed, as it that was the most normal thing in the world to be asking of an elf locked up in a dark, bat-infested cave. "I have to admit that I have always been curious about it. 'Son of the head'? I cannot make sense of it, and the Valar know that I have tried."

It might have been the darkness, but to Meneldir it looked as if there was a faint blush creeping up the other's cheeks.  
"What about _your _name then?" the younger elf asked back in a rather obvious attempt to stall or change the topic. "It's not too common either, is it?"

"Ah, there's nothing special about it," Meneldir replied offhandedly. "The stars were especially bright in the night I was born. Don't try to change the subject, my friend. 'Son of the head'? It doesn't make sense." 

"It's not 'Son of the head'," Dólion shook his head curtly. "It's 'Son of the hill'."

"'Son of the hill'?" Meneldir asked, a frown creasing his forehead. "That's hardly any better."

"Trust me, I have heard the same many times in the past. Mostly in less courteous terms."

Without being able to see the other's face properly, Meneldir wasn't sure whether or not the younger elf was truly hurt or offended. The last thing he wanted was make him feel even worse than he evidently already was by ridiculing the name his parents had chosen for him.

"Forgive me, my friend," he hurried to say. "I did not mean to offend you or your family in any way. I am sure that your parents had a good reason for choosing your name, and did not mean to suggest otherwise." 

"No offence was taken," Dólion assured him with a small smile the other elf could more sense than see. "Truly, Meneldir. I am actually surprised that I am not asked more often."

"So?" Meneldir prompted him. "What hill were they thinking about?"

"Amon Sûl," Dólion admitted after a moment. "It was where my parents stopped shortly before my mother went into labour, and subsequently where I was born."

"You weren't born in Rivendell?" Meneldir asked, interested. "I had … well, just assumed."

"Only a few people know about this, my father made sure of it," the dark-haired elf retorted. "My mother wanted to visit her family in Mithlond before the birth, and my father accompanied her with his brother and one of his cousins. Even then the world wasn't much safer than it is now, and certainly not for a pregnant she-elf."

"So what happened?" Meneldir asked, a little surprised. "Your mother must have known the date of the birth."

"Oh, she did," Dólion nodded. It wasn't anything unusual or special, since elven children were born exactly one year after they had been conceived. "She stayed longer at the Grey Havens than she had originally wanted to, however. She thought that there wouldn't be enough time to make it back to Imladris before the birth, but my father insisted that they could easily make it, since there would be no storms for several weeks."

"Let me guess," the other elf inserted sarcastically. "There was a storm."

The young elf shrugged somewhat apologetically.  
"Of course. Even though they were able to reach shelter before it hit them, they were slowed down considerably. When the day of the birth came, they had just reached Amon Sûl."

Meneldir whistled softly and shook his head.  
"I would think your mother was not very happy about that." 

"And you would be right," Dólion grinned. "One of these days you have to talk to my father about it. He swears that she almost killed him with her bare hands, and that it took both his brother and his cousin to stop her." He shook his head as well and shrugged. "So it came that I was born on Amon Sûl. I never found out which one of my parents actually chose my name, but I think it was my mother. She … well, she wasn't having a very good day." 

"I can imagine," the dark-haired commander inclined his head. "You count on your friends, your mother, sisters, cousins and midwives, on clean sheets and accomplished healers should you need them, and what do you get? A campfire, three terrified warriors and a couple of blankets."

"And rain," Dólion inserted. "Lots and lots of rain." 

Meneldir winced openly. He wouldn't say that he had overly much experience with females, but he _did _have two sisters, both of whom were married, one of them with children. There was another thing he had learned in his life, and that was never to get on the wrong side of a pregnant she-elf.  
"It is a miracle your father survived that night."

"The Valar must have watched over him, at least that's what he's been saying for the past thousand years. It is indeed the only explanation I have been able to come up with myself."

"Well, I hope some of his luck has rubbed off on you, _mellon nín_," Meneldir told the other elf only half-jokingly. "I think we could use it."

"Really?" Dólion asked sarcastically. "What gave it away? The bats, the dark, narrow, damp cave, us being tied up or the fact that we will most likely not see the next sundown?"

"You are _definitely _spending too much time with Estel or the twins, young one."

"I like their sense of humour," Dólion admitted with a small shrug that was barely noticeable in the darkness that surrounded them and because his arms were bound tightly behind him. "They are … entertaining, in a faintly murderous kind of way."

Meneldir gave him a look that was somewhere between horrified and incredulous.  
"You are unquestionably going on that scouting mission to Forochel."

"Right now, sir," Dólion told him seriously, "I would most certainly welcome it, as long as there are no bats."

"I don't think they have bats there," Meneldir said thoughtfully. "There might be … what are they called? … those white bears." 

"Bears, wolves, wild murderous squirrels from Mirkwood," Dólion shrugged eloquently. "I wouldn't mind."

"Be careful what you wish for, Dólion," Meneldir told him. "Knowing our kind of luck, it will cause all three to come and pay us a visit." 

"I don't think that I would be overly surprised."

"Me neither, my friend," the fair-haired elf said seriously as he leaned his head against the wall. "Elbereth be my witness, me neither." 

It was silent for a few moments, before Dólion surged up next to him with a rather impressive, old Quenya curse, undoubtedly rubbing his wrists raw in the process.  
"Damn those blood-sucking little fiends! There was one in my hair!"

Meneldir fought hard to bite back a grin, but after a few moments he gave up the fight. The thought of Dólion with a bat in his hair was just too much.  
"Fluttery, aren't they?"

"Not bad," Dólion admitted, shaking his head roughly from side to side even though he knew perfectly well that the animal was long gone. "Not bad, sir."

"Thank you," Meneldir told him somewhat smugly.

Dólion didn't respond directly and only muttered something about self-satisfied superiors and what could happen to them if they weren't careful, but a moment later both of them fell silent as if on an inaudible signal. Unconsciously they cocked their heads to the side to be able to hear more clearly, their foreheads creased in an identical frown.

"Do you…" Dólion finally began hesitantly.

"Oh yes," Meneldir agreed. "I hear it, too."

"It" was the right description, since he didn't have any idea what it was he was hearing. It sounded like … footsteps, many of them, but it was almost impossible to hear them. Meneldir's frown deepened. He knew that it was completely ridiculous, and that it was most likely nothing but highly wishful thinking, but he would almost have been able to swear that he was hearing elves.

Meneldir shook his head. He was really beginning to hallucinate.

"Whatever they want, they won't get it from me," Dólion turned around to him, his wide-open grey eyes clearly visible even in the darkness. "I won't give them anything."

Meneldir only smiled at him, sadness filling his heart. He didn't tell the younger elf that the humans didn't seem to want anything from them – except maybe their lives. Another thing he didn't tell him was that everyone could be broken, even elves and even those that were trained for fighting and warfare.

"I know that, Dólion," he told him evenly. "I know that. Don't worry about it. Everything will be fine."

"Of course," the younger elf said, his voice lacking any real conviction. "Of course."

The two of them fell silent, listening to the footsteps that slowly drew closer. It was most puzzling, Meneldir thought in confusion; whoever it was who was coming, they didn't appear to know where they were going. Several times the footsteps stopped or faded entirely, only to reappear a few minutes later. It was almost as if … as if they were looking for something – or someone, he realised, a faint, vague hope beginning to grow inside of him. It was ridiculous, of course, even preposterous, but what if…

Meneldir couldn't finish his musings since he was rudely interrupted by the sound of a key that was thrust into the lock of their door, followed by another and yet another. Dólion turned slightly to look at him, his eyes large and bright and confused in his darkened face. He seemed to have realised the same thing as Meneldir just a moment earlier: Just why would their captors walk around in circles and have to try out different keys for the door? 

The fair-haired commander pushed that thought aside, together with the hope that was blossoming inside his chest and refused to be ignored. He would not allow himself to be blinded by his hopes; there was simply too much at stake.

There was a faint, clicking sound, followed by a louder noise as someone found the right key and turned it in the lock. Meneldir took a deep breath as it began to swing open and resolutely pushed his anxiety and fear to the side, not even trying to get up or hide. There was nowhere they could go, and nothing that offered them any cover or protection.

The door was pushed open entirely, and the faint light of a single torch poured into the room. To the two elves in the small dark space – and the bats – it looked as bright as the light of the sun, and Meneldir had to close his eyes in order not to be blinded. It was too late, though, and so he was still battling with the large, grey-black dots that were beginning to lay themselves over his vision like a swarm of particularly annoying insects when he opened them again.

In the end, he was able to make out four shapes that were standing in the doorway, one of them, the one furthest to the back and left, holding the torch. It took another few moments until he could actually see the four beings' faces, and from one second to the next he felt how all the fear and anger and anxiety that were bottled up inside of him dispersed like wisps of smoke in the wind. A small part of him asked how this was possible, but he pushed it aside. He didn't care in the slightest how this was possible, and if this was a hallucination or delusion of some sort, he wanted to enjoy it, not analyse it to death.

Then again, the more sensible part of his brain supplied helpfully, delusions didn't usually look this … relieved. The four beings in front of him – who looked suspiciously like four elves he knew quite well – looked _very_ relieved, and maybe even a tiny bit amused. Meneldir could understand that, though. He didn't even want to know where all the bats were sitting.

It didn't seem as if one of them wanted to say anything any time soon, and so Meneldir opened his mouth to speak, vainly trying not to smile broadly.  
"If you'll forgive me for saying so, sirs, but … it's about damned well time you came."

Glorfindel arched a golden eyebrow and exchanged a quick look with Elladan who merely shrugged back, as if to say that the two of them were Glorfindel's soldiers and therefore not his problem.  
"We were delayed."

Meneldir looked at Dólion who grinned back at him, looking like an exceptionally relieved frog. He couldn't have cared less if Lord Glorfindel and the others had been busy knitting themselves new clothes; all that mattered to him was that they were here. A sudden thought struck him, and he rose to his feet, moving stiffer and more slowly than he would have liked. 

"My men," he began urgently, looking at Glorfindel with serious eyes, "We do not know where they are. Have you…"

"Be calm," Glorfindel assured his commander while he nodded at the elf holding the torch. The warrior handed the burning piece of wood to Elladan and stepped into the room, drawing his knife and almost immediately beginning to cut through the bonds that secured Meneldir's arms behind him. "They are fine," the golden-haired elf lord went on. "We found them and they are already outside. Not that they would have needed much help, though; Ingvaer had already come up with one of his infamous plans involving a piece of string, a sliver of metal and soft rocks."

"The strangest thing is that those plans usually work," Elladan added, his eyes wandering over the two elves in front of him. They were a little pale and there was a bruise on Meneldir's left cheek, but otherwise they appeared to be fine. "More or less, that is."

"As do most of your plans, Elladan," the fourth elf announced, stepping around the twin, and Meneldir noticed for the first time that he wasn't another of their warriors as he'd first thought but rather Lord Celylith, Prince Legolas' silver-haired friend. "You are the last person who should judge anyone for the validity of their plans – or the lack thereof." 

Elladan merely shot the silver-haired elf a dark look before he returned his attention to Meneldir who was looking at him with the slightly long-suffering expression many elves seemed to adapt in his company. The fair-haired commander was rubbing his chafed wrists with stroking, angry movements that did not bode well for those who had bound him thus.

"My brother is not here?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. The warriors had already told them that Elrohir wasn't here, but a part of him was still clinging to the hope that his twin was somewhere around here and that he would be able to hug or strangle him.

"No, my lord, I am sorry," Meneldir shook his head. "He ordered us to separate. He and Captain Isál were commanding the first group, and I do not know what happened to them. The men who captured us implied that they had been taken captive as well; I would guess by the soldiers of Donrag." 

"Yes, I agree," Elladan nodded with a side-look at Glorfindel who was still standing in the doorway, looking slightly impatient. "My father is waiting outside, and is already changing the plans to account for the changed situation."

"Your … father?" Dólion asked, stopping in mid-motion while he was nodding his thanks at the warrior who had just freed him. "Lord Elrond is outside?"

"Well, of course he is," Glorfindel nodded curtly, once again looking more than a bit annoyed, either by the elf's question or his lord's actions. "He never listens to me anyway, so why should he have started now?" He took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. "I am grateful that you are unharmed, both of you. I expect a full report once we are outside."

He turned and walked away, leaving the rest of them behind in somewhat stunned silence. At first, Meneldir was rather confused – because if there was one thing Glorfindel rarely was, it was being short and impatient with his warriors – but then the pieces fell into place all at once. Lord Glorfindel had found them – which would have been almost impossible without the help of Tibron or another human from Aberon – and had also talked to the rest of his warriors, so he would also know that they had been trying to rescue Lord Erestor. All of Rivendell knew that the dark-haired councillor and Lord Glorfindel were in fact good friends even despite the many times that they had brought each other to the brink of madness, and therefore it didn't surprise Meneldir in the slightest that his superior was in a snappish mood.

Valar, the fair–haired elf amended a moment later. It was a miracle that he wasn't ripping people's arms off.

"He has been … under a lot of stress lately," Elladan said in a manner of explanation, gesturing at Glorfindel's retreating back.

"I can imagine," Meneldir answered with a heartfelt smile. He, too, would have been 'under a lot of stress' if he had been in Lord Glorfindel's position. "We can save Lord Erestor, my lord, and your brother, too. They left only a few hours before us, and it can't be much later than sundown."

"The sun set over three hours ago," Elladan informed him after a second of silence. "It is already past the tenth hour."

Meneldir swore shortly and earnestly in an odd Dwarvish dialect that, somehow, only served to emphasise his rather interesting curse.   
"That long?" he merely asked curtly.

"Yes, Meneldir," Elladan nodded, "That long." He turned and gestured at Dólion to precede them which the younger warrior did with a grateful nod before he returned his attention to Meneldir. "Let's get out of here, Commander. My father is waiting, and he is _not _in the mood to be patient. There is much that needs to be planned, and much that must be told. Even," he allowed himself a small smile, "some good news."

Meneldir shot him a quizzical look but nodded, beginning to follow after Dólion and the other warrior, when a gentle but very firm hand closed around his upper arm, holding him back. The commander's first instinct was to lash out at the person restraining him, but he retained enough sense not to do anything, something he was rather grateful for as soon as he saw that the person in question was in fact Lord Celylith. It wasn't that he didn't think that he would be able to best the silver-haired elf in a fight – he was only a wood-elf, after all! – but he sincerely liked him, even though he was said to possess a strange passion for abominable creatures. Besides, Kind Thranduil would most likely not look kindly on it if one of his captains (and the son of one of his highest-ranking advisors at that) was assaulted by one of Lord Elrond's warriors.

"A moment, please," the silver-haired elf told him softy, but there was an urgency in his voice that was almost impossible to overhear. "What news of my prince, Commander?"

Meneldir resisted the urge to close his eyes, knowing that it wouldn't make him – or the other elf – feel any better. He really should have been expecting this, shouldn't he?  
"He was walking under his own power when I saw him last, sir," he finally answered, only to wince inwardly almost instantly. Somehow that had sounded more diplomatic in his head. "He was arguing with Estel and Lord Elrohir."

The last sentence brought a small smile to Celylith's lips, but his dark blue eyes remained solemn and entirely unamused.  
"'Walking under his own power' is an awfully vague description, Commander."

"Yes, my lord," Meneldir answered, feeling chastised somehow. "He could stay on his feet, but he wasn't well, everybody could see that." Seeing Celylith's questioning look, he added reluctantly, "He was wounded, sir, both in Donrag and during their escape. There was some damage to his ribs and shoulder, as I understand, and also to his head and neck. And … and, well, Estel pushed him into the Mitheithel. All for his own good, of course."

Any other elf would have looked at least a tiny bit surprised at this particular revelation, but Celylith only sighed deeply and shook his head.  
"Why o why am I not surprised?" Meneldir looked at him, slightly wide-eyed, and Celylith quickly raised a hand. "It was a completely rhetorical question, Commander. Thank you for your honesty."

"Do not thank me, my lord," Meneldir shook his head slightly, trying to ignore the need to leave this small, dark cave that was eating at him almost like a physical pain. "Not before we have found them, at least." 

"Oh, that won't be a problem," Celylith said, his voice tired, fearful and annoyed at the same time. "We'll just follow the blood, chaos, fire and general mayhem."

"Uhm, yes, sir," the other elf nodded, clearly not too sure whether or not he should show his agreement too openly.

Celylith simply shook his head once more and was about to turn around to follow Glorfindel when his eyes took on an expression Meneldir couldn't identify immediately. Elladan, however, seemed to have no such problems, for he began to shake his head fervently and grasped the other elf's arm.

"No, Celylith. Whatever it is, no."

"What?" The elf's silver head shot up. "What are you talking about?"

"I know that look," Elladan said curtly and closed his fingers around the other's upper arm in a vice-like manner. "I have _seen_ that look, too many times if you ask me. Whatever it is that you want, we don't have time for it. We need to save Elrohir, Legolas, Erestor and the others. You know, my brother, your prince, _ada's_ friend?"

"I know who they are," Celylith retorted, trying to sound annoyed and failing. "And just what are you talking about? You know that we won't be able to leave for at least ten more minutes, no matter what happens." 

In this moment, Meneldir recognised the look in the wood-elf's eyes. He had seen it not too long ago, after one of his sister's had given birth to her first child. His brother-in-law had looked just like that when he had first looked upon the baby, namely somewhere between overwhelmed, astonished and speechless. Just why Lord Celylith would look like that was beyond him, though.

"No," Elladan reiterated, beginning to drag Celylith over to the door. "No. A spider and an ox are enough. No, no, and no."

"You are repeating yourself, Elrondion," the wood-elf told him curtly, shaking off his hands. "Are you saying that I should leave this helpless little creature behind?"

Meneldir frowned, trying to understand what the other elf was talking about. What helpless little creature was the wood-elf referring to? Thoroughly confused, he followed the silver-haired elf's outstretched hand with his eyes, something that only served to confuse him more since Celylith seemed to be pointing at the wall. It took Meneldir a moment to realise that he was, in fact, _not _pointing at the wall, or at least not only, mostly because he couldn't wrap his mind around the concept of anyone calling that … that thing a "helpless little creature".

"The … the _bat_?" he finally asked, not even trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. 

"It's precious, isn't it?" Celylith asked with a nod and began to walk over to the spot where a small, rather skinny bat was hanging upside down from a tiny ledge on one of the stone walls. He had apparently decided to take Meneldir's incredulity for agreement. "It doesn't look as if it has any family, does it?" He paused and frowned, slowly beginning to reach out for the animal with one of his hands. "I wonder what bats like to eat?" 

"Nobody cares, Celylith!" Elladan all but yelled and moved as if to grab the other yet again. "Because you are not going to take it with you! By the Valar, I cannot _believe _that I am having this discussing with you again! Where in the name of Elbereth herself is Elrohir when you need him?"

"And why not?" Celylith asked stubbornly, his hand already almost touching the bat. Strangely enough, the animal didn't look alarmed or frightened in any way. "You are not my superior, Elladan."

"You speak the truth, Elbereth be praised," the twin nodded wickedly. "How Legolas puts up with you I will never understand. Are you coming now or do I have to…"

He trailed off, because the bat chose this moment to flutter over to the silver-haired elf and settled down on his bracer-encircled left wrist. Meneldir could only stare, both at the creature sitting on the other's wrist and the almost elated expression on the wood-elf's face. It was common knowledge that most animals were calm and approachable in the company of elves, even skittish beings like deer or birds, but this … this was just too much. For a moment, Meneldir suspected that he was having a kind of strange, very disconcerting dream, but Elladan's choked sound of disgust quickly dispelled that impression.

"I can't believe it," the twin declared, staring at the black creature and its ugly face with appalled eyes. "I just can't believe it." 

"It's perfect, isn't it?" Celylith asked, obviously spellbound. "Look at its face – I never knew that they could look this intelligent! The ones we have in Mirkwood don't even come close to it – they want to suck your blood, too, so I guess that would be too much to ask for." 

"And what," Elladan asked sweetly, sounding very much like a person who was clinging to the last shreds of his reason and patience, "makes you think that this 'perfect little creature' won't try to do the same? Besides, it's a _bat_, Celylith! Bats are nocturnal; you can't take it with you!"

If Celylith had heard him, he ignored him. Still staring at the small creature clinging to his leather armguard and tunic, he moved past them, in Meneldir's eyes only one step away from cooing at the animal. The fair-haired commander asked himself – not for the first time in the past few minutes – if the wood-elf had got a very hard hit on the head lately.

Elladan's thoughts seemed to be moving along the same lines, even though he, for one, seemed to have come to a decision already.

"He is mad," he muttered and grabbed Meneldir's arm, beginning to follow the rather distracted silver-haired elf. The twin seemed to be rather fond of grabbing other people's arms, Meneldir noted. "Completely and utterly mad. Great Manwë, all of Mirkwood is!"

"Yes, sir," Meneldir nodded obediently, finding that he couldn't argue with that.

"When we have found that idiot brother of mine and the others," the twin began darkly, walking slowly in order not to stumble in the dark, "and Celylith's equally idiotic prince asks just why his childhood friend is dragging a _bat _around with him, please tell him about this, Meneldir. And don't forget to mention that I tried to stop him!"

"As if I could forget something like this," Meneldir smiled ironically. "I have to admit that I haven't had many dealings with our Mirkwood allies until now."

"No?" Elladan asked, an almost evil glint in his eyes. 

"No," Meneldir shook his head and fought the urge to start running as he saw the first, faint starlight at the end of the tunnel through which they were walking. He smiled openly, feeling how his heart became lighter. There waited light and air, his men and friends – and his chance to avenge himself on those who were responsible for all this. "No," he repeated thoughtfully. "I wasn't prepared for their … uniqueness."

Elladan chuckled half-heartedly at the diplomatic term and shook his head as well.

"Welcome to my life, Meneldir. Welcome to my life."   
**  
****  
****  
**  
****

Aragorn wasn't feeling well, and not only because his head was threatening to explode, his shoulders and back were throbbing, and his right wrist was a pool of agony. There was also the problem of the rest of his body – it seemed that, while he hadn't been paying attention, a group of trolls had used him for their own private amusement by bashing him against something hard and unyielding a few hundred times.

At least that suspicion wasn't all that far-fetched, since he knew everything there was to know about being bashed against things by trolls. 

No, it wasn't only his body that was giving him trouble, it was his general situation. Even though he hadn't liked being confined to bed, his more reasonable side had welcomed the chance to rest and replenish his strength, fully aware of the fact that he wasn't up to doing … well, anything. Walking through unknown, hostile, terribly crowded cities fell well into that particular category, especially when his only companions were a pair of boys even younger than he was.

The ranger shook his head slightly, unwillingly. He hated dragging Torel and Vonar into this, he really hated it. They were too young and inexperienced for something like this, and if he wasn't careful, he would get them and their families into deep, deep trouble. He didn't care in the slightest if he got Toran into trouble – the man could drop dead for all he cared – but he wouldn't want to inconvenience Tibron in any way.

Aragorn snorted inaudibly. Dragging his only son on as foolhardy and dangerous an excursion as this was definitely to be defined as an "inconvenience".

The young man was brought out of his thoughts by an elbow that was rammed into his bruised side, sending a wave of pain through his torso and back. If there hadn't been so many people all around him, he was quite sure he would have fallen to his knees, but this way he was simply carried along with the others, none of whom even looked at him, intent as they were on getting to one of the larger plazas as quickly as possible.

He had just regained his balance somewhat and had begun to master the pain when one of the men behind him stumbled and grasped at the nearest thing he could find for support – which turned out to be Aragorn's shoulder. That in itself was nothing he would have found overly disturbing, even though he had been raised by elves who, as a general rule, did not enjoy being touched by strangers. Today, however, the firm grip that the other man had on his shoulder was enough to bring tears of pain to his eyes, and he almost bit through his lower lip in order to keep back the scream that was on his lips. 

The man behind him let go of his shoulder mere seconds after he had grasped it, mumbling an apology, but Aragorn wasn't really hearing it. Heat was beginning to suffuse his already more than warm body, and he could almost feel how his brain decided that enough was enough, thank you very much, and that you should damned well lie down when your body was in this kind of condition.

Just a second before his brain could do something about all this, two pairs of hands grasped him, taking care not to press down too firmly or touch any of his wounds. A small part of Aragorn knew that he should at least open his eyes to see who had taken a hold of him – when exactly had he closed his eyes, he wondered – but he simply didn't possess the energy to do it. His face felt hot, and he didn't even have to see himself to know that it would be deeply flushed. The young man sighed tiredly as he allowed himself to be pulled over to the side of the street, where there weren't as many people. He had been ill often enough to know what happened when you ignored your body when it was sending you this kind of warning signs, and he just hoped that the illness would only take hold when all of this was over.

He would almost have giggled, another sign that he really wasn't all that healthy. Right now the illness was the least of his worries, especially since there was the very real chance that he wouldn't live long enough to get even properly sick.

The dark-haired ranger was torn out of his – admittedly rather morbid – thoughts when he suddenly came to a stop, not really on his own volition. Puzzlement gave him enough energy to open his eyes, and a moment later he looked at the faces of Torel and Vonar who looked at him with exasperated expressions. They were wearing the almost exact expression Elrond would have worn had he been here at the moment, which was more than a little bit disconcerting now that he thought about it.

"This is folly, ranger," Torel informed him, annoyed. Aragorn thought about protesting, but his father hadn't raised him to be a liar, and so he remained silent. "Complete and utter folly. You aren't strong enough to go anywhere!"

"He is right," Vonar chimed in, nodding his head in a fervent manner that caused his brown curls to fly up and down. "Besides, this is far too dangerous. The chances that someone will see us are just too great."

"I have to disagree," Torel shook his head gloomily. "I think that the chances that someone _hasn't_ seen us yet are in fact negligible."

"I don't think … that that would really matter," Aragorn disagreed, taking deep breaths in order to get the pain in his body under control. His bruised ribs didn't agree with that, however, and so he just traded one kind of pain for the other. "They would have to inform Hurag, who would have to send them back, and after that they would have to find us again. In this," he gestured at the crowded street, "it is almost impossible."

"Wrong, ranger," Torel answered almost testily. "They know the city as well as we do, maybe even better. And do not think them to be stupid, either. They would know well enough to have one man follow us while the other went to inform Hurag."

No matter how much Aragorn wanted to disagree, he found that he simply couldn't.  
"You are right," the ranger finally admitted. "We need to get off this road. Is there any other way we could take?"

"Oh, I'm sure there is," Torel smiled in a friendly way that somehow didn't look all that friendly at all. In fact, it looked annoyed more than anything else. "If you were so kind as to tell us what is going on and where we are going, I am sure we could be of more help to you!"

"As I told you before," Aragorn began, fixing a dark glare on the slightly younger man, "I do not want to get you into any trouble. It would be best if you just left me alone and returned home. This way, I would also attract less attention and…"

"You are a guest of my father's house," Vonar brushed his objections aside. "Are you suggesting that I disregard the laws of hospitality and chance the Gods' and my father's wrath by letting you walk through the town alone, in the condition you are in?"

"Forget I asked," Aragorn mumbled under his breath, knowing that nothing he would be able to say would have any effect whatsoever. He wouldn't have let guests of his father wander around alone and unprotected either, and nothing but an order from one of the higher-ranking Valar would have made him. "All right," he added. "We need to go…"

"Where?" Torel interrupted him, the underlying fear he felt of Aragorn apparently overshadowed by his annoyance. The dark-haired ranger couldn't even blame him. It had stopped raining some time ago, but the wind was cold and biting and the air still carried the heavy promise of wetness and more cold. He didn't like being out here either. "Where are we going, ranger? Stop treating us like children and tell us what is going on here!"

Aragorn barely refrained from telling them that they were children, at least to his mind. Even when he had been their age – namely two or three years ago – he hadn't been this young, this naïve and completely unaware of the danger that he faced. He didn't know if it was because of his heritage that he could no more shrug off than his own skin or maybe the fact that he had been raised in the House of Elrond where almost everyone and everything was a few millennia his senior, but he strongly suspected that he had _never _been this young.

"As you wish," he finally said curtly, giving the people all around them a pointed look. "Get us into a side street that leads to the docks and I will tell you what you wish to know."

Torel narrowed his eyes slightly, exchanged a quick look with his cousin and finally nodded his head. He nodded at Vonar to help the ranger if he needed it (and he very much looked as if he would) and began to shoulder his way through the crowd, knowing fully well that asking nicely would get him nowhere. He had seen more than enough festivals to know that no one cared for anything but getting to the main plazas right now.

While he was pushing his way through a throng of – by the looks of them – carpenters, he thought about the way the ranger had looked when he had acquiesced his request, and with a small shudder he realised that the other man had been right, perhaps. If the way he had looked at them had been any indication at all, then he really might not want to know what was going on here. 

It was too late for second thoughts, though, and Torel knew it well. There was nothing to be done than grit his teeth and push his way through the crowd, and the young man did both extensively until all three of them were standing in a side-street that was leading down the docks. It was dark, lit only by a few torches here and there that flickered erratically, and Torel had to smile inwardly. Now the scenery fitted the circumstances, didn't it?

The dark-haired ranger lifted his shoulders and took a deep breath, as if a heavy weight had been removed from his shoulders. He turned half back around, giving the noisy, crowded street behind them a quick look.   
"Is it like this every year?" he finally asked incredulously. 

"Basically, yes," Vonar answered with a shrug. "This festival is rather normal, I think. There might be a few more people here than last year, but we've had a lot more already. Why?"

"How can you stand it?" Aragorn asked, frowning deeply. "You can't take a single step into any direction, let alone breathe without being crushed into something or someone else!"

"Well, that's what festivals are like," Vonar shrugged again, giving the ranger a mildly confused look. "Are there no festivals that the Elves are celebrating?"

A wide grin broke over Aragorn's face as he began to walk down the street, rather openly feeling for his sword. When he had ascertained that it was really hanging securely at his side – something that didn't surprise him all that much since he could feel its weight – he went on and checked on the two knives he had grabbed before they had rushed out of Tibron's house. They, too, were just where they belonged, something which caused him to breathe an inaudible sigh of relief. He had a very bad feeling about this, somehow. 

"Oh yes," he answered the boy's question, almost like an afterthought. "Elves love to celebrate. But … well, they're not like this. Elves usually don't … crowd like this. If you had seen Rivendell, you would understand what I mean."

"I haven't," Vonar nodded longingly and rather unnecessarily. "My father tells me that it's the most beautiful place in the world, though." 

Aragorn was about to agree – even though he was rather sure that the Elves of Lórien or even Mirkwood might have disagreed (Silvan Elves were like that) – when they were interrupted by Torel who had caught up with them. The brown-haired youth had taken his younger relative's arm in a vice-like grip and was dragging him along, looking for a second like a harried governess. 

"Yes, so he has told us many times," he ground out. Aragorn was rather amazed by the dark look the younger man was shooting him. He hadn't thought he had it in him. "And it's all very interesting, but where are we going? You promised us some answers, ranger!"

"So I did," Aragorn answered calmly, without slowing down in the slightest. "And I will tell you what you wish to know – but I will not stop. We don't have any time to spare. I can talk while walking, just as you can listen while walking, wouldn't you agree?"

It was the knowledge of what the ranger was capable of doing that kept Torel from trying to strangle him. When the dark-haired man put his mind to it, he could be incredibly infuriating.

"All right then," Torel nodded curtly, doing his best to imitate the tone of voice his father always used when he was agreeing to something he thought stupid. He pushed his cousin forward, to the ranger's right, while he walked to his left, more because he thought it rather possible that he would falter than because he wanted to be able to hear what he had to say. "Tell us, in the Gods' name."

"The Gods, as you call them, have nothing to do with it," Aragorn remarked softly while he concentrated on setting one foot in front of the other. Left – right – left – right … how hard could it be? He wiped cold sweat off his forehead with an angry, somewhat jerky motion. If it wasn't so hot everything would be much easier.

"Your people – or at least some of them," he went on, stubbornly staring straight ahead as the alleyway began to shift and move like the deck of a ship, "are from Tharbad, you say."

"Yes," Vonar nodded a moment later, looking about as confused as Torel felt. "But what has that to do with anything?"

"When my friend and I escaped from Donrag, we were cornered in a corridor," Aragorn explained patiently. "We hid on a balcony to avoid recapture, and thus witnessed a conversation between Acalith and the 'Fox'." He saw the two younger men's confused looks and added, in a manner of explanation, "Gasur."

"You know him?" Torel asked, far too confused to feel any real surprise. Gods, the ranger could know every orc, highwayman and insane madman within a radius of a hundred miles and he wouldn't be surprised. 

"'Know' is too strong a term," the ranger retorted in a voice that was as cold and emotionless as the Northern Reaches in mid-winter. "We've met."

"It was not an amiable meeting, I take it?" Vonar asked sarcastically. A second later he looked positively astonished at his own audacity. 

"No," Aragorn shook his head curtly. "It wasn't, and if we ever meet again, one of us will not walk away from it."

"Don't take it personally, Strider," Torel said evenly, "but in your current condition it would be you who wouldn't walk away from such a meeting, not him."

"Most likely," Aragorn admitted. "That does not really bother me, though, since I know that he is living on borrowed time. If Legolas doesn't kill him, my brother will."

There was a hard, uncompromising light shining in the dark-haired man's eyes that would have discouraged anyone from asking further questions. Neither of the two boys felt any inclination to enquire any further, and so it was silent until Aragorn spoke up again.

"She was saying that she intended to make sure that the inhabitants of this town joined their ancestors in 'a most befitting way'." Aragorn almost spat the words out, disgust evident on his face. He turned his head, giving the two of them a cool look. "I do not think I have to spell it out for you, do I?"

For a second or two, Torel was simply stunned, faltering in mid-step. Then reality seemed to speed up again and the implications of the ranger's words fully registered in his mind, and he grasped the slightly older man's arm and pulled him to a stop, not caring that the ranger could probably kill him with his bare hands if he wanted to.  
"What is it you are you trying to say?"

Aragorn looked at the hand that was grasping his left forearm before he slowly raised his eyes to meet Torel's shocked gaze, but in the face of the other's barely controlled horror his slight anger disintegrated. He gently disentangled the grip Torel had on him and gave him a sympathetic look. 

"I think she is planning to flood the city," he said, his voice calm and composed. "She wants to let the Mitheithel do her work for her. Think about it," he stressed. "Your city is located in the plains of the valley. All she has to do is have someone manipulate the dams that protect your docks and…"

"No, she wouldn't do that," Vonar shook his head. Not only to Aragorn's ears his protests sounded a lot as if he was trying to convince himself of that fact. "She…"

"And why not?" Aragorn asked tiredly, his patience finally spent. He understood the two younger men's reasons for doubting his words, but that didn't mean that he had to like being detained here. "She is insane, Vonar, completely insane. I do not know why she is doing this, but I do know that she will stop at nothing to get what she wants. She is in control of your neighbouring city and all her soldiers and resources. Donrag is located on a hill while Aberon lies in the plains, so no matter what happens, her city is safe. I ask of you: Why not?"

"Yes," Torel agreed tonelessly, his eyes shocked and vacant. "Why not."

"I am sorry," the young ranger told him earnestly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "By the Valar, I am, but we cannot stay here. I do not intend to let Acalith's plans succeed, not while I have strength left in my body. We must stop this."

"Yes," Torel repeated, but seemed to shake off his temporary paralysis. "Yes. Are you sure about this, ranger?"

"As sure as I can be, yes," Aragorn nodded without hesitation. "I think there is only one interpretation of her words that makes sense, and what better time than now, when all of Aberon is gathered within the city walls?"

Torel looked at him for a moment before he nodded as well, reluctance written all over his face as he began to move once more.  
"All right, Strider. Let's assume you are right. What do we do?"

Aragorn would almost have faltered, but forced his weakened body to keep up with the two younger men. That was a question he hadn't really contemplated until now; all that had mattered had been getting down to the docks as quickly as possible. He shook his head quickly and forced himself to think, to use what was left of his concentration to figure out what they should do. 

"What kind of dams do you have here?" he finally asked, deciding that his father's advice of always collecting all the information you possibly could was probably as good a tactic as any. "Are they outside the city walls? I have to admit that I didn't really get a good look at them."

That surprised Torel for a second, but then he realised that the ranger wouldn't have. He and the rest of his party had got here late at night, after all, and he had spent the following day arguing with the council as far as he knew. And after that… The young man shook himself, doing his best to ignore his memories that were still able to recall in gruesome detail and perfect colour how the ranger and his friend had looked like when Vonar and he had found them in the forest south of the city.

No, he wasn't surprised that the ranger had never really seen the dams.

"They are just normal dams, I guess," Vonar answered for him. "Normally, the river's water level is not higher than the ground level. If it has been raining for some time, though…"

"The level rises," Aragorn finished the sentence, pressing his lips together. "How long are your dams?"

"I have no idea," Vonar shook his head. "They run along the entirety of the city and also most of the valley, long past the ford. They are not only protecting the town, they are also protecting the hinterland. There are at least two hundred homesteads and farms all around Aberon that would be flooded if worst comes to worst."

"I see," the ranger nodded thoughtfully, still purposefully striding down the alley. He might not have a clear idea of what he was supposed to be doing, but one thing he had already learned was that leadership was as much about appearances as about experience or knowledge or even skill. "Are they integrated into the walls?"

"Yes," Torel answered softly, dread tingeing his voice and making it sound lifeless and hollow. "Yes, they are. The docks are vast, almost like a small harbour, and it would have been too much trouble constructing the walls around them; besides, they are growing all the time. It was deemed that the impassable river was protection enough, and we make due with a wall on top of the dams and patrols."

"So if someone manipulated the dams close to the docks…" Vonar began hesitantly.

"The whole city would be flooded," Aragorn finished the thought. "I have seen the river; I have _been _in the river. I haven't seen the Hoarwell this swollen for years; the pressure on the dams has to be enormous. If they are breached at one spot – or worse, at more than one – and no one were to notice it immediately, there is no telling what would happen. Elbereth, the water could take the entire dam around the city with it!" 

Torel shuddered and struggled to keep up with the ranger, sudden, black terror almost paralysing him.  
"Why do you know so much about dams?"

"The human villages close to Rivendell have had problems with their dams a few times in the past years, usually in the spring, when the Bruinen – the Loudwater," he added for the two boys' sake, "carried more water than usual. A few of them appealed to Lord Elrond for help and he granted it, of course."

Vonar looked at him, all confusion and wide-eyed innocence.   
"So your elven friends in Rivendell don't have any problems with the river?"

"No," Aragorn answered curtly with an almost undetectable smile that neither of the two young men was able to explain. "No, they haven't." 

There was something about the dark-haired man that very clearly said that he did not intend to discuss this topic any further, and neither Vonar nor Torel were stupid enough to try and press him on this subject. It was silent for a few moments, the only audible noise the sound of their footsteps, before Torel spoke up again, the shock from earlier replaced with terror, mild incredulity and … yes, and anger.

"I do not know anything about dams," he admitted softly, looking almost shame-faced. "I was never interested in them in any way. But what I know is that it doesn't do to drill a hole into one of them to make it collapse onto itself."

"No," Aragorn agreed, but didn't nod his head. He had come to realise that moving his head any more than he absolutely had to was a very bad idea. "No, it wouldn't do. You need a small tunnel for that; at least the size of a big rabbit hole. I have seen more cases of rabbit holes undermining dams than I can count. Together with poor maintenance they're the main reasons for dams breaking up."

"The works!" Vonar suddenly exclaimed and grasped Aragorn's arm, only to let go of it again apologetically as soon as he saw the wince of pain flash over his face. "The building works! Torel, do you remember?" 

"Of course!" his cousin nodded eagerly. "That would be perfect, wouldn't it?" he added, looking at Aragorn expectantly.

"If you were so kind to explain to me what you are talking about, I might be able to answer that particular question."

"Forgive me," Torel inclined his head almost instantly, a sheepish expression on his face. "There is always maintenance work going on; everybody knows that not keeping the dams under close observation might result in catastrophic results for everyone. Every guild is taking turns to pay for the works, and they even do it without complaining. As far as I know, there are several going on at the moment, paid for by," he inserted a small, rather unnecessary dramatic pause, "the traders' guild, or more precisely Hurag." 

"Convenient," was all Aragorn said in a cold voice. 

"Indeed," Torel agreed. "There are at least five construction sites I can name."

"Seven," Vonar supplied weakly. "Don't forget the one close to the weavers' guild-house and the new one over at Horseshoe's Corner." 

"Seven, then," Torel admitted. "If we follow this street down to the docks, we should be able to reach all of them."

"There's not enough time for that," Aragorn protested, contemplating for a moment to stop and listen to their surroundings. He knew that it was most likely only his fevered imaginations that were beginning to play tricks of him, but for a second he would have been able to swear that he had heard something. Like … footsteps. "Where is the one work site that would wreak the most havoc? Think, both of you! A dam is like a chain; it's only as strong as its weakest link. Have there been any cases of water seeping through the dams, or a known weaker part of it? At a spot that is maybe close to the centre, where a breached levee would cause the greatest possible confusion and panic?"

The two younger men exchanged a quick look before they turned back to him, nodding.  
"The warehouses," both of them answered simultaneously. "The warehouses close to the main docks," Torel elaborated. "They are used for the most important and valuable cargoes, because they are so close to the city centre, therefore making the transport easy. The dams there have been in a state of disrepair for years – until Hurag offered to pay for their repair. Everybody thought he just wanted to protect his merchandise, but…"

"Are they far from here?" Aragorn interrupted him, unconsciously turning his head to the side. He was rather sure that his condition was not the best at the moment, and that the icy, chilling wind was doing nothing to aid a speedy recovery, but now he was _certain _that he had heard something. "If we can find signs of tampering or sabotage there, we can inform Tibron and the rest of the council. All we need is proof. Quickly."

"No, not far," Torel shook his head, gesturing at the buildings around him. For the first time Aragorn noticed that they had left the residential areas behind and were now in what looked like an industrial part of the city that was deserted, as was logical at this time of day. The young ranger shook his head inwardly despite his growing unease. He really must be worse off than he had previously thought. "Ten more minutes," the young man went on. "Perhaps fifteen. This is the fastest way down to the docks." 

Aragorn was about to say something, but the words died on his lips as his senses suddenly came to life, all of them telling him that he should get out of here, now. He had long ago learned that it was always a good idea to listen to your feelings, but this time he just couldn't accommodate them. There was another, very, very real urge gnawing at the back of his mind, an urge that told him that if they didn't get to the dams soon, they wouldn't need to bother. 

"How well-known is this street?" he asked detachedly, suddenly wishing he had taken his bow with him. He seriously doubted that he would have been able to draw it – or would even have been able to aim at anything, considering how badly blurred his vision had become – but he would have felt a lot better. "Would it have been obvious that we would take this street?" 

"Well, yes," Vonar conceded somewhat reluctantly. "If they knew where we were going."

"That wouldn't have been too hard to guess," Torel interjected rather bitterly.

Aragorn ignored the two boys' words, concentrating on what he could hear and see. He was no elf, but normally he was far more perceptive than the average human, due to his upbringing that was only aided by his Númenórean blood. Right now, however, said blood was pounding in his ears, his whole body throbbed mercilessly and his vision was clouded by a faint, inexplicable greyish veil that had appeared out of nowhere, and so he wasn't able to tell what had set off the internal warning bells in his head.

Who cared, he asked himself tiredly. His intuition had yet to let him down.

"Do you have some weapons?" he asked the two younger men while he was grasping the hilt of his sword whose sheath was beating against his leg with every step he took. "Swords?"

Torel didn't have to look at his cousin to see his own fear and dread reflected in his eyes.  
"Yes."

"Do you know how to use them?"

The brown-haired youth gave the emotionless face of the ranger a suspicious look.  
"Yes … why?"

"Because," Aragorn began, only to trail off when, a few dozen yards ahead of them, several dark figures disentangled themselves from the shadows the buildings left and right of them cast, "we're about to have company." 

Torel gave him a dark look, but any retort that might have been on his lips died when he took a closer look at the men standing on the street in front of them. It was too dark for him to be able to count them, but he suspected that there were at least ten, if not more. A few of them looked faintly familiar, and he realised that he had seen them on one or two occasions, when they had accompanied Hurag somewhere.

Tibron's nephew hung his head, trying to ignore the fear that was building up inside of him. They were outnumbered at least three to one, and while Vonar and he were no novices with a blade, they were also no match for Hurag's goons. And, he added with another quick glance in the ranger's direction, neither was Strider, at least at the moment.

Vonar seemed to have come to the same conclusion, for he took a step closer to Aragorn, his eyes wide and round in his scared, white face.   
"This … this is going to end badly, isn't it?" he asked, unable to keep the frightened tremble out of his voice.

Aragorn gritted his teeth as he surveyed the men in front of them, grasping the pommel of his sword and wishing with all his heart that he had Legolas and Elrohir at his side, or at least one of them.

"Oh yes," he finally said flatly. "It is."   
**  
****  
****  
**  
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If Legolas had had a hand free to nervously wring his hands, he certainly would have done so. Since he didn't, though, he did the next best thing: He fidgeted.

He had long since decided to ignore the knowledge that it was unbecoming an elf prince – and most certainly unbecoming an elf prince who was a son of Thranduil – to fidget or show his anxiety and unease in any way. He simply didn't care anymore, and besides, everybody in this cellar which acted as their cell was as nervous and anxious as he.

And they were showing it, too.

The part of Legolas that wasn't yet on its way to a full-blown panic took a second to grin inwardly. Even though the Firstborn were, as a general rule, a merry and expressive people – and the Noldor of Rivendell maybe even especially so – there were also some things one simply did not do as an elven warrior, for example fidget, frown or do something equally undignified. It just didn't happen, especially when your superior officer was someone as formidable and awe-inspiring as Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin.

And besides, having to listen to his 'Things-a-proper-elf-lord-never-does speech' was enough to cause the bravest elves to beg for mercy. He wasn't exaggerating; he had actually watched it happen. More than once.

Right now, the elven prince decided, Glorfindel would have the chance to enjoy himself thoroughly. Everybody knew how much the re-born elf lord enjoyed his speeches, and now he would have got the chance to lecture every single one of the elves present in the room. A pity he wasn't here, Legolas thought whimsically. After his father and Lord Elrond it was actually Lord Glorfindel he would want to come to his rescue the most when in a situation such as theirs, or maybe Lord Celeborn.

Then again, maybe it wasn't such a pity after all, he decided a moment later. He was, after all, quite sure that the golden-haired elf lord would explode in at least four directions if he heard what these humans had done to Lord Erestor. He didn't know how Lord Elrond's advisor was faring at the moment, and had only Acalith's word that he was in fact not dead. And that, Legolas thought acidly, meant precious little.

The thought of Acalith brought him immediately to Gasur, and from there it was only one more step into true, mind-numbing fear. Legolas shook his head slightly in order to clear his thoughts, an objective he failed to achieve quite spectacularly. There was simply no way to be calm when thinking about Acalith's empty-eyed, mad-faced captain, no way at all, and he was indeed rather certain that even one of the Nine would have found the man's company at least annoying, if not downright disconcerting.

Legolas did his best to push his fear aside, unwilling to let it bother him, but he might as well have tried to reason with a troll. Fact was that he was afraid of Gasur, or rather of what the man could – and would, if he got the chance – do to him and his companions, and there was no denying it, no matter how much he wished to. That Gasur – or the 'Fox' or whatever he was calling himself today – was more than willing to hurt them had been made abundantly clear when he and his men had 'escorted' them to this room in the cellar. Acalith's orders had apparently been clear enough to ensure than neither Elrohir nor Legolas had been harmed permanently, but after 'stumbling' into a wall for the third time he had realised that that didn't necessarily mean that they had to reach their destination unharmed.

The fair-haired elf sighed inaudibly. Many times he had heard someone say that they were not afraid of anything, and he had always known that they were lying – because of the very simple reason that everybody feared _something_. He was no exception himself, even though he would hesitate to admit it publicly. There were in fact many things he feared and many more he simply refused to think about, like the fact that his best friend was a mortal man and therefore bound to the same fate that had befallen his kind since the first days of their existence, or that he had left said friend in a soon-to-be-flooded city. Alone.

He was, however, wise enough to know that, even though no one was free of fear, there were some fears that could safely be indulged and some that could not. His fear of the dark-haired captain was of the latter kind, and he would be damned if he allowed a stupid, completely insignificant man to intimidate him.

Somewhat heartened by that decision, Legolas returned his attention to his surroundings, only to find that not much had changed. In fact, the only thing that had changed was the fact that a different warrior was standing close to the wooden door, an ear pressed against the hard surface and his face creased in a slight frown as he concentrated. The sight reassured him in a way; at least no one would be able to surprise them – for what it was worth.

A muffled yelp of pain could be heard from across the room, and Legolas' head turned around, just like the head of every other elf in the dark, damp cellar. Elven eyesight allowed him to see what was going on, and he could hardly stop a small, amused smile to form on his lips. Their situation wasn't completely hopeless, after all, and getting to watch something like this was in fact an added bonus.

One elf was not of that opinion, at least judging by the faintly murderous expression that adorned his fair features. Said fair features were right now bruised and somewhat swollen, only serving to underline the fact that he was _not _amused.  
"Would you please be careful?" he hissed angrily. "That's the fifth time this has happened! Valar, if I didn't know better I would say that you are doing this on purpose, Annorathil!"

"Me, my lord?" the elf behind him asked innocently, turning around so he could see his young lord's face. "I am wounded, sir. How could you think so ill of me?"

"Because of five, and I repeat, five attempts to ram that piece of metal into my arteries," Elrohir retorted rather testily. "Rather successful attempts, I might add."

"You exaggerate, my lord."

"Do I!"

By now Legolas wasn't even trying to hide the grin that spread over his features, and he noticed that most of the warriors seemed to be rather amused, too. The sight was just too funny, too: Elrohir and Annorathil were kneeling in the middle of the room, back to back. Annorathil's eyes were half-closed as he concentrated as hard as he could, trying to manipulate the levers inside the lock on the annoyed twin's chains. Most people would have found it nigh impossible to pick a lock basically blind, with your hands bound behind you, but Annorathil wasn't most people, something for which the elven prince was beginning to be very thankful.

Legolas' grin disappeared almost instantly as he heard Annorathil curse once more. This time the dark-haired elf seemed to have managed not to prick Elrohir again, which was just as well, Legolas thought. He could understand Elrohir only too well – he had been poked altogether too much in his life as well – but the twin's outraged protestations were beginning to get on his nerves, no matter how understandable and even amusing they might be. 

With patience Legolas was sure he could never achieve, Annorathil turned the small piece of metal once more and reinserted it into the lock, a stubborn, almost grimly determined expression on his face. Until now, the lock had resisted all his attempts to pick it, a situation the dark-aired elf was clearly unwilling to accept. It was obvious that Annorathil had never encountered a lock he had been unable to open, and that he would rather eat his best set of picklocks than accept defeat now.

That attitude was indeed the only thing that allowed Legolas to keep up his hopes and believe that there might be a chance to escape. Before they had been thrown in here, Gasur's men had searched all of them, in a rather rough but very thorough manner. It was clear that they didn't intend to make the same mistake twice, something that he could even understand. He didn't know what the 'Fox' had threatened them with if they should allow one of them to escape, but he was rather sure that it was nothing pleasant or even survivable. 

The fact that he understood why the men had searched them so thoroughly did not change the fact that he was currently very busy cursing their names (and, just to make sure, the names of their parents). None of the warriors had anything left that could be of use to them, not even a belt buckle or anything like that. Gasur himself had searched Elrohir and him, if that was the right word. It had been more an excuse to knock them around a lot.

Legolas grinned inwardly. The dear captain should have searched someone else, for example Annorathil. He didn't even want to know just where the older elf had hidden the small piece of metal he was currently holding in his hands, even though he had some suspicions. Fact was that they had a tiny sliver of metal in the hands of the most accomplished and skilled lock-picker Legolas had ever seen, which was definitely reason enough to feel hopeful. 

And, he thought to himself, that meant quite a lot, because Lord Erestor had been quite an impressive lock-picker as well.

That thought led him back to his favourite pastime – imagining what he would do to Gasur when he got out of here – but he was jarred out of a particularly pleasing mental picture of a screaming Gasur (sans arms) by a barely muffled yelp of pain and movement to his left. He stored that particular idea for later consideration and turned around to ascertain what he already knew: The yelp had come from Elrohir, just like the movement – it seemed that the elven twin had literally jumped into the air.

"Ah!" Elrohir exclaimed in a manner highly unbecoming an elf lord. "Annorathil! Why don't you just go straight for my jugular vein and save yourself all this trouble!"

Even though he knew that, if Elrohir saw him, he would pay dearly for it later, Legolas had to grin. _He_ knew that his friend was simply trying to ignore his own unease and fear and that he didn't really mean what he was saying, but it appeared that Annorathil did not, at least judging by the highly interesting red colour that was beginning to creep up his pale, usually calm face. Legolas cocked his head to the side and studied the other elf carefully. A truly unique colour, that.

"If you would just sit still, my lord, I wouldn't prick you as often," Annorathil declared coolly and tried again. "I can't imagine that being too hard."

The answer Elrohir had to this was short, rather crude and produced in an obscure Quenya dialect Legolas had never before heard in his life, even though that didn't mean too much, considering that he was of Sindarin descent. Inwardly deciding that this was wonderful blackmail material – just what would Lord Elrond say if he found out that his sons hadn't used his vast library for useful research, but for learning ancient curses? – he rose to his feet, wondering just when a simple act like this had become an almost insurmountable feat.

After far longer a time than he would have liked, he had managed to stand up, all the while shooting dark glares at any warrior who looked as if he would want to offer his help. Slowly, in order not to upset his injuries that had so successfully been aggravated by the 'Fox' and his friends, he began to make his way over to the two elves on the floor, flopping down heavily next to his friend a few moments later.

Elrohir seemed to have been quite preoccupied with the situation he found himself in at the moment – just why had he offered that Annorathil try open his chains first? – for he noticed his fair-haired friend only now.  
"You should be resting, Legolas," he told the bruised, bloody and very pale wood-elf seriously. "You are in no condition to walk around." 

"I am not 'walking around'," Legolas informed the slightly older elf. "I walked approximately ten feet."

"More than enough to aggravate your injuries. Ouch!" Elrohir exclaimed again, turning his head to give Annorathil a dark glare. This time, the older elf simply ignored him.

"That, my dear friend, has already been taken care of by that ... man."

Legolas could almost hear how the twin ground his teeth – he was almost as bad as Elladan when it came to feeling guilty and responsible for things that were far beyond his control – and a small, angry line appeared between his dark eyebrows.  
"Yes, I know. How I would like to kill him for this. For this and other things." 

Legolas shook his head apologetically, but there was a steely, ice-cold glint in his eyes.  
"Get in line. I have wanted to kill him since last winter." 

"All right," Elrohir nodded, obviously trying his best not to concentrate on what Annorathil was doing behind him. "If you want to kill him, you have to keep up your strength. If you're not careful, you won't be in any condition to kill anyone, least of all that mad captain."

"Trust me on one thing, Elrohir," Legolas said calmly and in an utterly serious, even tone of voice. "The next time I see him, I will kill him. No matter what."

Elrohir didn't say anything to that and just looked at him as if he was looking for something in his friend's eyes or his face. Whatever it had been he had been looking for, he apparently found it, for he slowly nodded his head, grey eyes solemn and hard.  
"So you will, then."

It seemed that the matter was closed to him with this, because he cocked his head to the side, gave Legolas a long look and finally shook his head a little, giving him a small smile.  
"Valar, Legolas, but you look terrible."

Legolas decided in an instant that he would never be so insensitive as to tell people who were obviously feeling unwell that they were looking terrible.  
"Thank you, o Master of Subtlety. You, if I may say so, aren't your usual beautiful self either."

"You tell him, your Highness," Isál encouraged the fair-haired elf from where he was standing next to the warrior on guard duty. The captain hadn't said much these past few hours, and not only Legolas was sure that he had used them to plan new and inventive ways of killing their 'hosts'. 

"A compliment from a wood-elf?" Elrohir gasped, ignoring Isál's words. "And from a son of Thranduil at that? I have to tell _ada _about this."

"He wouldn't believe you."

"Most likely not," Elrohir admitted. "Everybody knows how impolite Silvan Elves are."

"Impolite?" Legolas retorted, flabbergasted. Most of the warriors were beginning to turn their heads from left to right and back again, as if they were following a duel of some sort. If there was one thing one could always rely on, it was Prince Legolas' and the twins' penchant for insulting one another and their respective people, or, as they would call it, having a 'fruitful discussion'. "Impolite? Don't think Celylith hasn't told me how you and your equally useless brother 'greeted' him when you came to get Estel last winter!"

"That little weasel," Elrohir said to no one in particular, an amused sparkle in his eyes.

"Don't be too hard on him, _mellon nín_," Legolas said smugly. "I am his prince. He is honour-bound to tell me anything I wish to know."

"I pity your father's subjects," the dark-haired twin declared sternly. "You, my dear prince, are enjoying such things far too much, if I may say so."

Before Legolas could tell him that he may not, a click could be heard, followed by a satisfied grunt from Annorathil. The tense expectation on Elrohir's face was almost comical to watch, and it did not abate even when he pulled his wrists in front of him. The heavy chains were still dangling from his right hand, but the left one was free, the skin red and grazed. The twin looked at it as if he was expecting it to snap shut again on its own, before he slowly and somewhat stiffly turned around to face Annorathil.

"I stand by my earlier words, Annorathil. If you were any better, Aulë himself would become jealous. Very much so."

To Legolas' surprise Annorathil actually blushed as he mumbled some words of thanks. It might have been his imagination, though, for his senses – which hadn't been working all that well lately anyway – were beginning to deteriorate even further. He suddenly became aware of the burns on his chest and arms that Gasur had so joyfully placed there, and his ribs and the long cut on his arm and shoulder began to throb in rhythm with his heartbeat. He knew that he shouldn't have left Aberon in this condition, but then again, it wasn't as if he had _planned _on any of this!

'Come now, did you really expect anything else to happen?' a small voice asked him, only serving to heighten his sudden anxiety. He might not be a healer, but he did know some things about healing. One of them was that, if you were beginning to hear voices no one else could hear, it wasn't a good sign, even if you were an elf.

He was trying to ignore that nagging little voice that was right now berating him for his foolishness – it wasn't right that it sounded like a mix between Aragorn, his father and Lord Elrond, was it? – when a lot of things happened at once, and he had neither the desire nor the energy to do anything himself. It seemed that Elrohir had everything under control, he thought somewhat dreamily, doing his very best to ignore the way his wounds throbbed or his head ached. Why should he get in the way?

That thought was wrong, too, somehow, but he didn't try to figure out why. He just watched while Elrohir freed his right hand, took the sliver of metal from Annorathil and picked the lock of his chains – in not quite a spectacular fashion, admittedly. As soon as the older elf was free, Elrohir handed him the piece of metal, and in a matter of minutes the rest of the warriors had been freed. Feeling slightly dazed, Legolas inspected his newly freed wrists, deciding that he was beginning to agree with Elrohir. He hadn't even felt Annorathil work on his chains; he was indeed very, very good. Sometimes, he thought while he painstakingly picked himself up, it paid to have a few Noldor around.

He had just managed to gain his feet when Elrohir appeared next to him, carrying his now open chains and wearing a rather worried frown.   
"Are you sure you can stand, my friend?" Legolas merely gave him a look that very clearly said 'What do you think?', and he shrugged. "All right. Do you want to hear my plan?"

The fair-haired elf was torn between rolling his eyes, groaning loudly and grinning, and he finally settled for doing a little of everything. In combination with the pallor of his face, his overly bright eyes and his unsteady stance, it looked more than a little disconcerting.  
"Oromë help us. You have a plan?"

"Yes," Elrohir announced, ignoring the sarcasm that tinged his friend's voice. "Or at least the beginnings of one. As I see it, we have two choices: We can wait until they change the guard and overpower them then, or we can make our escape right now. I would prefer the first option, actually, since that would put more weapons at our disposal and would give us more time. They shouldn't come in here until morning at the earliest, when they come to bring us outside to be executed."

"Your deliberations have merit, _mellon nín_," Legolas nodded, forcing the complaints of his body to the back of his mind. He had more important things to do right now, like finding a way to free Lord Erestor, kill the 'Fox' and save Aragorn and all of Aberon. He would almost have laughed aloud. That shouldn't be too hard, should it? "But they are flawed, I fear."

"Why?"

"One, because we cannot afford to lose any time. There is a threat growing in my mind, a shadowy certainty that tells me that we must act, _now_. Aberon doesn't have any time, Aragorn doesn't have any time, and neither does Lord Erestor. We need to find him and leave this place. I do not know how I know this, but I think they will act tonight. Tomorrow there will be nothing left to save."

"You might be right about that," Elrohir mumbled after a second or two. "I do not know what my feelings tell me, not with certainty. This town, it is … too dark. It is like a dark hole, like it swallows up everything, including light and hope, like..."

"Baredlen," Legolas finished the twin's sentence, naming Girion's city far to the east where they had almost died a few short months ago. "I know exactly what you mean. There is another reason, however. You do not know Gasur as well as I do. No matter what his lady tells him, no matter how much he is forbidden to touch us, he will come here tonight."

"He is welcome to try," Isál all but growled, his own chains dangling from his hands. For the first time Legolas' tired brain realised that, if that chain was swung properly and with enough force, it was quite a dangerous weapon. He gave the elven captain a quick look. Oh yes, Isál looked properly motivated for a little bloodshed.

"Do not underestimate him, Captain," he told him nonetheless. "He may be mad, but he isn't stupid. He won't come here alone. He will have his men with him, or his lieutenants at least, and there won't be a way to overpower them quietly. We cannot hope to escape once he comes here, nor can we hope to deceive him. He is too suspicious and paranoid by far."

"Very well," Elrohir nodded and straightened almost imperceptibly. "Then we go now. How long until the changing of the guard, Isál?" 

"Approximately an hour, sir. Maybe an hour and a half, but not more," the dark-haired elf replied, the chains in his hands clinking softly as he moved ever so slightly. The dark glint in his eyes spelled doom and death for all who would cross him now, and somehow Legolas couldn't find it in himself to feel pity or sympathy for the men they would encounter.

Elrohir nodded and gestured at Legolas to follow him as he walked over to Annorathil, who was crouching in front of the door, at eyelevel with the lock.

"How is it coming?" he asked softly, even though none of the elves had trouble hearing him. Aragorn, too, would have been able to understand him, but a normal human would have found it almost impossible. Someone separated from them by a heavy wooden door would most certainly have found it impossible. "Do you need more time?"

Annorathil only turned and raised an eyebrow.  
"For this?" he asked incredulously. "A child could open it. I haven't turned the final pin yet since that would cause too much noise. This lock is old, ill-fitting and hasn't been oiled for several years."

Legolas raised both eyebrows at the other elf's tone of voice that sounded almost scolding, as if he couldn't understand how anybody could treat a good lock like this. Only a Noldo would sound like this when talking about a lock of all things, he decided. Or maybe a dwarf, he corrected himself a moment later, but that was something he'd better not say in a room full of Deep-elves.

Elrohir nodded at the older elf who moved slightly to the side, clearly prepared to open the lock completely. All of the sudden, two warriors appeared next to the twin and positioned themselves next to Elrohir and Isál, who were standing to the left of the door, their now open chains dangling from their hands. Knowing that a scuffle was the last thing he needed right now, Legolas simply took up position behind them, his eyes fixed on the door. Elrohir and his men were more than capable of handling this, and if the determined, almost blood-thirsty gleam in their eyes was any indication at all, this small fight would be over quickly.

He was right. At Elrohir's nod Annorathil opened the lock and pulled the door open with the same movement, the iron hinges groaning loudly in protest. The second that lay between the opening of the door and the four warriors rushing over the threshold would have been enough time for an elven sentry to unsheathe his sword or at least shout a warning, but the four human guards that Gasur had positioned in front of their door were caught completely by surprise. In a matter of second all of them had been subdued and were lying on the floor, unmoving, and Legolas didn't even bother checking whether they were alive or not. He couldn't have cared less.

The rest of them filed out of the room while the two warriors dragged the still humans into their cell. Legolas slowly moved over the threshold, careful not to make any noises. Elrohir and the others had done their job well – none of the humans had managed to call for help or reinforcements – but that didn't mean that there couldn't be others around. Their only chance for escape was secrecy, and it needed only one human to see them and raise the alarm. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins once more, sharpening the contours of his surroundings and pushing back the pain and weakness in his body, and so his hands didn't tremble as they would have otherwise when Elrohir pushed a long, dark-hilted knife into his hands that he had taken from one of the guards. 

"Here," he said, grasping a rather crude sword more tightly himself. "Can you use this?"

Legolas gave him a pitying look, almost as if he had asked if he loathed orcs. The fair-haired prince weighed the weapon in his hands, spinning it to test its balance.  
"Better than you ever could."

Elrohir didn't answer and just carefully clapped him on his back with a grin on his face, apparently satisfied with the answer. A moment later they were joined by Isál who hurried down the corridor towards them, obviously returning from a quick venture into the surrounding corridors. Legolas frowned; he hadn't even noticed that the captain had gone. The chains still dangled from the dark-haired elf's hands, since there weren't enough weapons for all of them, but now they were tinged a rather ominous red-brown that suited the dark grin on his face.

"The corridor is clear, my lord," he reported with a small nod at Elrohir. "I left one of my men at the next corner; he will warn us should someone approach. It is difficult to hear anything with certainty, though," he warned. "The corridors are many and maze-like, and their form twists the sound of voices and of footsteps."

"Very well," Elrohir nodded back at him, hefting his sword. "Legolas and I will take point. Isál, you will take the rear. Do what you have to, but, by the Valar, no heroics or private vendettas, do you understand me?" 

Isál didn't even bother pretending that he didn't know what the other elf was talking about.  
"Yes, my lord."

Elrohir gave him a last look before he turned around and walked down the corridor, followed by Legolas who was doing his best to disguise the fact that the walls were beginning to look slightly … wobbly, for a lack of better word. Behind them, the door of their cell was closed as quietly as possible, and Isál and the other warriors followed them, moving as soundlessly as wraiths.

A few moments later they had reached the next corner and Elrohir turned to the elven prince, nodding at the warrior Isál had left here.   
"Do you know where Erestor's cell is? We have only an hour to free him and get out of here – at the most."

Legolas didn't answer immediately and he stopped to regain his bearings. Finally he turned to face his friend, wishing that he had better news.  
"The cellars are far too large and sprawling. If we can get back to the main stairs, I can show you the way. Otherwise it would be a question of luck."

"And we all know how well that has worked for us in the past," Elrohir nodded and turned back to nod at Isál. "To the main stairs it is, then. Stay together and remain on your guard."

The order was quite unnecessary, since none of them would even have dreamed about lowering their guard in any way. To reach the main stairs took them longer than Legolas would have thought possible, and far longer than he liked. They had to stop several times to avoid detection, and once they even had to retract their steps for a whole fifty yards when a pair of soldiers came their way. In the end, though, they reached the main stairs, only to repeat the entire performance while Legolas led them back the way he had memorised when Aragorn and he had first been brought here.

By the time they reached the corridor at whose end the advisor's cell was, Legolas' hands twitched with nervousness, impatience and, if he was completely honest, quite a lot of pain. Sneaking through the corridors had done his aching head little good, and his shoulder felt like it was on fire. In addition to that the – by now probably once more infected – cut on his throat felt raw and as deep as the gorge in which Rivendell was located, and Legolas had the secret suspicion that, if he wasn't careful, his head would simply fall off his shoulders and roll away.

And that, he decided, would definitely be a nuisance. He would never find it in this twisting maze of corridors, would he?

A small part of him noted that this was a rather strange thing to be thinking about, but he ignored it, deciding that they had far worse problems than the fact that he was apparently beginning to go insane. His internal clock which was usually very reliable told him that they had no more than maybe fifteen or twenty minutes until the changing of the guards – if they were lucky. And somehow he didn't think that they would be.

Legolas exchanged a quick look with Elrohir while they stood next to each other at the end of the corridor, peering around the bend to watch the still, unguarded door down the hallway. Elrohir didn't need to be told what his friend was thinking, but he merely shrugged helplessly. There was nothing they could do about it, anyway.

"Could this be a trap?" the dark-haired twin whispered, his eyes not leaving the suspiciously unguarded corridor. 

Legolas had spent far too much time in this less-than-hospitable town to dismiss that possibility outright.  
"Of course," he retorted evenly, unconsciously tightening his grip on the handle of his knife. "But it is also possible that they simply don't think him much of a threat anymore."

Elrohir visibly gritted his teeth at that, only to cock his head to the side a moment later, a movement that was mirrored by Legolas and most of the warriors behind them. They listened for several seconds until they relaxed again, dismissing the noise they'd been hearing. It wasn't the first time that one or more of them had thought they'd heard footsteps that had turned out to be reasonably far away from them.

With a slight turning of his head that Legolas knew well from Lord Elrond, Elrohir came to a decision. Taking a deep breath, he nodded at Legolas and Isál and moved around the corner, quickly making his way over to the door. Within a few seconds, Annorathil was kneeling in front of the wooden door, his ear pressed against it as he worked as quickly as he could. The rest of the warriors gathered behind him, most of them shooting uneasy looks at the empty corridor behind them. It was clear that none of them liked being out in the open like this.

A few moments later – to Legolas it seemed like only a heartbeat or two – Annorathil raised his head and nodded at Elrohir, indicating that he was ready to open the lock. The twin nodded back, taking up position to the left of the door. With the same quick, practised movement Legolas had already seen in their cell, the dark-haired elf pulled the door open and Elrohir rushed inside, quickly followed by the rest of the elven warriors.

The cell was exactly as he remembered it, Legolas thought as he, too, crossed the threshold and entered the room: Small, damp, bare, with a tiny window high up one wall and chains dangling from another. There were some spots on the walls and the ground where his sharp eyes could see rusty red stains, bringing cold shivers to his back and fury to his heart. In fact, he decided calmly, there was only one significant difference from the last time he had been here: The room was empty.

Legolas leaned against the doorpost as the world began to spin more quickly around a random axis. He slowly closed his eyes, counted to six and opened them again, first the right and then the left one.

The room was still empty.

Next to him, Elrohir seemed tempted to do the same thing, but either realism or anger prevented him from doing so and he swore viciously instead.  
"Mandos damn their black souls! They've moved him!" 

Legolas simply closed his eyes again, not even bothering to try and fight the despair and disappointment that rose inside of him. He had let them all down, hadn't he? He had promised Aragorn to bring Lord Erestor back; had promised it on his own honour and the honour of his house. By Elbereth's stars, he had promised Lord Erestor himself! How could he ever look his human friend in the eyes again, or Lord Elrond or, Valar forbid, Lord Glorfindel? 

Elrohir swore once again, gave the dangling chains a kick and whirled around to face his increasingly pale-faced friend. Legolas didn't move or say a word, and it was Isál who broke the uncomfortable silence that he descended upon them.  
"What do we do now, my lord?"

The twin ran a hand through his long, by now unbound hair, knowing which decision he would have to make. It was the life of an elf who might or might not be alive against the lives of a whole city – a city where his younger brother currently was. Elrohir gritted his teeth and shook his head, inwardly cursing the fates for presenting him with such a choice. He loved Erestor, surely, but did he not love Estel at least as much? How could he abandon one to certain death to save the other?

In the end he was saved from making such a decision, even though it happened in a matter he did not enjoy in the least. The warriors they had left outside of the door – both to guard their backs and because the cell was simply too small to hold more than four or five elves – had barely time to hiss a warning before the scratching sound of someone unsheathing his weapons could be heard. And, Legolas thought while he grasped his knife more tightly and slowly stepped out of the room, it had sounded as if it was rather ten weapons than one.

The elven prince's face remained emotionless while he stopped next to the warriors, and not only because he didn't want to show how anxious he really was. He also couldn't really be surprised by the abysmally bad luck they had been having since they had set foot into this valley. He gave the elves next to him a small, almost invisible smile, trying to ease their minds. It hadn't been their fault; these corridors had acoustics that were almost as bad as their luck. There was no way they could have heard anything and warned them in time to flee or hide themselves.

The reasons for all these inner musings were slowly coming closer, looking very much as if they didn't really want to. He couldn't really blame them, Legolas mused detachedly while Elrohir, Isál and the rest of their party filed out of his former cell. The guards who were so reluctantly closing in on them must think that they had used some sort of dark magic to escape their chains and their cell. Considering Isál's "conversation" with one of them from earlier, it probably involved something like turning into beetles and scurrying away through the keyhole.

Legolas pushed these thoughts aside and straightened his back. He didn't know how the guards had found them; they might have been followed, it might have been pure bad luck – it hardly mattered. They had known from the very beginning that escape was unlikely at best. No, but what was important and really, really bothered him was that Gasur was stepping forward, making his way through the ranks of his soldiers with the slithering movements of the serpent he was.

Manwë Súlimo be his witness, how he would have liked to reach out and snap the neck of this utterly corrupted, worthless creature!

Said worthless creature was stopping in front of his men, still far out of reach of any of the far too even-faced, motionless elves. As Legolas had said earlier: He might be mad, but he most certainly wasn't stupid. 

"You are disappointing me, _elf_," he said in a smug voice that fitted the smug expression on his face very well, leaving Elrohir and Legolas to wonder which one of them he meant. "You are getting predictable. I stopped at your room for a little visit earlier, and just imagine my surprise when I found three of my men dead and all of you gone!"

He paused, either because he wanted to give them the chance to answer or because he liked the sound of his own voice so much. Legolas suspected the latter and seized the time to decide that the only useful bit of information in the man's ramblings had been that one of the guards had survived their earlier ambush. He couldn't find a bit of remorse or sympathy in his heart, and only wondered idly if the fourth man would survive his mistake. Somehow he doubted it.

Gasur shook his head mournfully and continued, the insane sparkle in his eyes brighter than Legolas could remember ever seeing it. 

"But then I remembered all the nice little conversations we've had in the past, _elf_," this time he was definitely talking to Legolas, "and remembered your oh-so-_honourable _attitude. You came all this way to save the elf lord's advisor, so you wouldn't leave him now, would you? Of course you didn't know that we found a different room for him a few days ago – now that was really too bad, wasn't it? You might have escaped if you would just have left him here. But no, you had to play the hero like you did in Lake-town and try to rescue him, even though you knew that _I _was here."

"Do not flatter yourself, _lyg_," Legolas told the man coldly, borrowing the insult Elrohir had so appropriately thought up earlier. "Do you really think you factored in our plans?"

The familiar, dark red colour Legolas had seen far too many times than he would have liked to began to creep up the captain's face, but his voice remained calm, far too calm. That was, in fact, the most dangerous combination of them all. Legolas took a calming breath and straightened even further, silently vowing that he would not allow himself to be taken once more.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," the 'Fox' retorted, his voice sounding pressed and unnatural. "It does not matter. You will not escape me again, and before all this is over, you will lie on your knees before me and _beg _me for death!"

Legolas blinked once and turned his head ever so slightly as he exchanged a half-incredulous, half-annoyed look with Elrohir, his muscles tensing for action.

One of these days, he thought in the split second that lay between deceiving calmness and everybody exploding into action.

One of these days a villain would come up with a more interesting threat than that one.

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TBC...

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_mellon nín - my friend  
ada - father (daddy)  
lyg - snake_

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So, did one of you catch the shameless MacGyver reference? Or the small Movie-TTT reference? •g• They weren't too hard to catch, I think... Anyway. We have once again reached the Everything-is-going-straight-to-Hell stage. Aragorn's in trouble, Elrohir and Legolas are in trouble, Elladan and Glorfindel are annoyed and Celylith is being strange, as usual. Could it possibly get any worse? •rubs her hands and nods gleefully• But of course it can! So, in the next chapter there'll be blood, pain, death, mayhem and chaos - all the things we secretly love. So, stay tuned, and reviews are loved, cherished and generally much appreciated! Thanks a lot!

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**Additional A/N:**

I am resuming my earlier practice of sending my review responses per email. I hope this works out; my internet connection isn't exactly what you would call reliable. I apologise to

Sielge, Jazmin3 Firewing, CrazyAZN kid, Dae and Tacita,

for not including them in the email - you guys reviewed anonymously. Remember, if you want to be included in the review responses, sign in before reviewing or don't forget your email addresses if you prefer to review anonymously! I would like to reply here on FF-net, but the Powers-that-be have decided that they don't like that very much. And who am I do deny them their fun? •evil look•

My thanks to all of you for your patience and support!


	33. Twist, Twisting, Twisted

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

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A/N:**

**Yes, you are completely right. Even for my new, not-very-improved posting schedule, this update is late. It is connected to the fact that I just found out that I actually had to do something for my classes here - who'd have thought? - or the fact that I worked at an event/congress kind of thing here. It was last week, and it took me a day or two to recuperate from it. •g• It was actually entertaining and I earned quite a lot of money, too, but scanning badges is only SO much fun. So is explaining to people that yes, we DO have bathrooms here. •shakes head• What are they thinking?**

**Oh, and thank you all for your kind words. I have by now recovered from the loss of my things, even though my new bank account card still hasn't arrived. It's only been six and a half weeks, so that would have been too much to ask for, I guess. •growls darkly•  
About the references, though: Ingvaer is indeed the MacGyver reference, well done, people. No one found the "TTT" reference? Well, it's in the part where Legolas and Elrohir have their talk, while Annorathil is opening Elrohir's chains. Still nothing? No? Ah well.**

**Anyway, here I am again. I have actually thought about this whole thing very long and hard, and after drawing several timetables and incomprehensible diagrams, I can now announce that this story will have about 37 or 38 chapters. Since I'd prefer an even number (you know that I'm strange like that! •g•), I'd guess 38, since there is absolutely no way I can wrap this up in 36 chapters. Please keep in mind that this is an educated guess ONLY. No guarantees. Oh, and the Glorfindel-finds-Erestor scene quite a lot of you are apparently waiting for will probably be in chapter 35. Again, no guarantees, sorry. •g•**

**Okay, be that as it may, here's the next chapter. I'd like to stress that the last part is not entirely my fault - Jack supported my idea. Oh yes, everybody, give Jack a little wave. •readers don't move• Ah well, whatever. She's studying in Turkey right now, so we're hatching evil plans via the internet. You've got to love it, right? •clears throat• Uhm, yes. Ignore that last part, okay? As I said, here's the next part, where we see what happens if you let Aragorn make any kind of plan and if Legolas, Elrohir and the dear Gasur are all left to their own devices. No, it's neither painless nor overly intelligent. •g•**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 33  
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**Aragorn shifted his weight from his left foot to his right foot, realised that that might have been a mistake as he began to tilt sideways, and quickly resumed his earlier position. Seeing that it didn't elicit any reaction from the men in front of them, he had to fight the sudden, rather ridiculous urge to jump up and down for a while, just to see what they'd do.

The young ranger sighed softly, more annoyed than intimidated (which was, more likely than not, also a sign that something was seriously wrong with his body and/or mind). This wasn't the first stand-off he was involved in, and he had the very distinct feeling that it would also not be the last. He spent far too much time in Legolas' and the twins' company for that to happen, after all.

It was, however, probably the most vexing one he had seen until now, mostly because he had serious trouble staying on his feet without swaying from side to side or toppling over entirely. He was a great friend of the whole 'the-first-one-to-move-is-a-coward routine' and the 'only-the-weak-ask-questions attitude', but right now he could have done without it.

It would be far easier if their opponents would just – for once! – draw their weapons and attack them without any further ado whatsoever. There was another thing he was getting tired of, and that was every villain's penchant for blabbering on and on about his impending death, the manners thereof and the fact that he would die begging for mercy.

'Maybe,' a small voice inside his head asked hopefully, 'Maybe if you looked at them nicely, they would try to kill you right away?'

Aragorn frowned inwardly, somewhat fuzzily deciding that hearing voices just couldn't be a good sign, but he heeded the voice's advice and tried to look as friendly and non-threatening as possible. It never hurt to try, didn't it?

One of the men at the front of the group of armed humans, a middle-sized man with a creased face and the smirking mouth of a man who found the rest of the world far too amusing, raised his eyebrows and cocked his head slightly to the side, studying them intensely. The small hope that, this time, he might just be attacked outright instead of being annoyed beforehand died in Aragorn's breast, and he sighed inwardly. Here it came.

"Well, well, well," the man began, predictably enough. "What have we got here?"

Aragorn would almost have rolled his eyes at that. Ah well, he tried to cheer himself up, it could have been worse. The man could have said something like 'Prepare to die, ranger scum!', something he had heard in the past. And normally, he reasoned, just from this kind of people, too.

The young ranger shook his head inwardly, deciding that, now that this game was officially on its way, he could just as well participate. If he kept them talking long enough, there was the chance that someone would stumble over them by accident and help them, or that he would suddenly have a stroke of genius and would think of a plan, or that one of the Valar would decide that they had tormented him enough and that it was time to intervene.

Personally, he thought that the last was by far the likeliest possibility.

Trying for his 'annoyed-but-very-important-young-lord voice', the one that had always failed to show any effect whatsoever on any elf he encountered but was rather successful with humans, he gave the man a haughty look of which Glorfindel would most likely have been intensely proud.  
"What do you want?" he asked coolly. "If it is money you seek, you will be sorely disappointed. We do not have anything of value with us."

The man shook his blond-grey head, his face creasing into an amused grimace.  
"Trust me, ranger, we won't even try and bother with what little silver you could have. Your kind is notoriously penniless, after all."

The fact that this man knew that he was a ranger and that that wasn't very good had barely registered in his head when newly awoken anger pushed it to the side, filling his breast with pulsing heat.  
"Know that from experience, do you?" he ground out, fervently trying to remember if he had heard of any ranger gone missing lately. He couldn't remember hearing or reading anything, but that meant precious little.

"As a matter of fact … yes," the man grinned, apparently sensing his anger. He shook his head, dismissing the subject, and turned his attention to the two younger men standing left and right of Aragorn, both of them gripping the pommels of their swords and vainly trying to banish the fear from their faces. "Your companions, however, are an entirely different story. They are known to us. Do you honestly expect us to believe that the sons of two councilmen would wander around during a festival like this without any money?"

All hope that he might be dealing with the world's chattiest highwayman disappeared from Aragorn's mind as if it had never existed. If the fact that these men knew who Torel and Vonar were hadn't been enough to convince him – there was, after all, the chance that they simply knew them (Aberon was not _that _big, after all!) – the sarcastic, malevolent undertone in his voice would have been. They were very aware of who they were and what they knew, and if there was anything worse that could have happened to them in this particular situation, Aragorn was hard-pressed to name it.

"And you are known to us, Bodar," Torel's voice interrupted his thoughts. The young man's voice didn't tremble or betray his fears in any way, and for a moment Aragorn was rather proud of him. "And, just like your friend Addric, you are not half as funny as you think. You know who we are and who my father is; you must also know what will happen if you do not let us pass. If you insist on this kind of behaviour, my father _will _hear about it."

Addric - the name Torel had spoken – rang a bell in Aragorn's head, and the dark-haired ranger needed only a second to connect it to the face of the dark-haired, grinning man who had set their house on fire and had taken him and Legolas captive. Aragorn ground his teeth, remembering only too well how that man had almost cut his friend's throat. Right now he couldn't think of anyone he would rather kill than this Addric – except Gasur, of course, but that didn't mean much. And besides, Gasur was already as good as dead; he just didn't know it yet.

Aragorn grinned inwardly, a cold, merciless grin that would have surprised anyone who knew him would they have seen it. How he would like to be there when Gasur finally realised it…

The other man – Bodar, he reminded himself; the least he could do was try to remember the name of a man who so obviously wanted to kill him – shook his head, bringing him back to the present. Aragorn mentally shook himself and concentrated. He hadn't even realised that the was beginning to drift off, and even though he knew that the fever was responsible for this inexcusable lack of concentration, he couldn't help but feel rather disgusted at himself. He had several lives to protect (among them his own to which he was rather attached) and a city to save, he couldn't afford getting lost in his thoughts and being cut to pieces.

"Oh, I am sure the dear Master Toran will hear about this," the fair-haired man agreed evenly. Even despite his amiable smile there was a dark, thoroughly unpleasant sparkle in his eyes, and Aragorn immediately decided that he liked it even less when the man agreed with them on something. "My master was _not _happy about his inability to control his own son – and his brother. The one intercepts letters and the other hides strange people in his house – not a very good attitude."

Aragorn would later think it rather peculiar, but he could indeed remember the exact moment his brain fell straight into his stomach, and how it had felt like. For a moment, he literally couldn't formulate a single, sensible thought as odd fragments of feelings, fears and images chased each other through his brain. It would have been enough to make a healthy man feel nauseous, but in his case it only served to increase the headache that was throbbing behind his eye sockets.

These men knew that Tibron had helped them. It didn't only place the innkeeper at risk; it also meant that they probably knew that he had aided Legolas, Elrohir and the others. If they knew that, they had most likely also known that his brother and the others would be leaving the city. And if they had known that… Aragorn's thoughts trailed off as he stared numbly at the grinning face of the fair-haired man. And if they had known that, they had most likely alarmed Donrag to their impending arrival.

Aragorn would almost have closed his eyes. He had let them go, thinking that they had at least a chance of freeing Erestor – however small it might be – and what had happened? They had walked right into trap, a trap laid by Acalith and the 'Fox' of all people. For all he knew, Elrohir, Legolas and the others were already dead, or, which might be even worse, in the hands of Gasur and his lieutenants, or…

Using willpower he didn't know he possessed, Aragon violently slammed a shutter down against his panicky thoughts before they could overwhelm him entirely. He knew nothing for certain, nothing at all, and the last thing he could afford now was sliding into a mindless panic. No matter what had happened or would happen, he was in no position to help his friends and his brother. He would have to see to his own problems, and once they were dealt with, he could see what he could do to help Elrohir, Legolas and the others.

And his own problems, he decided coolly, included staying alive long enough to stop this town from being flooded. Or, he amended, staying alive at all, for any amount of time.

Torel and his cousin seemed to have come to a similar decision, for Toran's son raised his chin, more defiance on his face than he probably truly felt.  
"Go back to your master, Bodar. Tell him that we do not fear him – if you can find him, that is. The entire town knows that he has stolen out of Aberon like the cowardly dog he is!"

If the man was in any way upset about the fact that his employer was being insulted – which Aragorn doubted somehow – he certainly did not show it. He merely took a step or two forward, something that was mirrored by his men. Aragorn clenched his teeth and stood his ground, giving the men dark looks. He had enough of sneaking through dark alleys and running away; he would _not _turn away from this.

And besides, the more reasonable part of him supplied helpfully, it would do them little good. He was in no condition to outrun anyone but perhaps a dwarf with a broken leg, they didn't have time to spare to begin with, and there was no telling if the men had bows or crossbows with them. If they did, the last thing he wanted to do was turn his back on them.

The men's leader shook his head again, still grinning like a particularly insane toad. Aragorn decided in an instant that this man, just like Addric, had far too high an opinion of his own humour and funniness.  
"Ah, but I cannot do that," Bodar retorted, sounding almost apologetic. "You see, I have orders to carry out. And, contrary to your father and uncle, young Master Torel, I intend to follow them to the letter."

"What commendable dedication you display," Aragorn commented sarcastically.

"What can I say?" the fair-haired man shrugged nonchalantly. "I love my work."

The possibility that this man wasn't simply stupid but rather insane flittered through the ranger's mind. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to him.  
"Apparently," he said shortly. "It is also going to be the last one you'll ever have, do you not realise that? Do you know what your master, what Hurag is planning? Do you know what will come to pass if he succeeds?"

Bodar shrugged again, an expression of utmost indifference on his face. He and his men carefully took another few steps forward until they were only about fifteen feet away from Aragorn, Torel and Vonar, and the ranger decided calmly that they really had to keep practising if they wanted something like this to be stealthy or anything of the like.

"Yes," Bodar nodded. "Yes, I do know, just like my men. And let me tell you a secret, ranger: I do not care. We have been well-paid, and will be again in the future, and that is all that matters to us."

"You are worse than orcs!" Torel spat, and Vonar, took, looked at the older man with appalled eyes. Aragorn would almost have given them a sad smile; not too long ago he would have reacted like them, too. Now, however, after too many encounters with too many greedy, uncaring men, he felt no surprise and only sadness, and no small amount of shame for the fact that he belonged to the same race as these men. "You are mercenaries, nothing more!"

"Only a fool denies what he is," the leader shrugged philosophically. Aragorn could only just bite back a groan as he once again decided that an instant ambush would have been far more relaxing than this.

"But be that as it may," the blond man went on, "we have received very unambiguous orders. Our master has decided that a demonstration is needed; a message, if you will. A message to those who cannot accept realities and who help my master's enemies." Even without the pointed look the other man shot him at this point Aragorn would have known that he was talking about him. "He has, in fact," Bodar continued calmly, "been very lenient until now and has given that nosy inn-keeper more than enough time to see reason. Now, however, his patience is spent. Some men – among them the dear Master Tibron, it would seem – only learn when they are clearly shown the consequences of their actions."

The man smiled, and Aragorn didn't even have to look at the malicious intent that was shining brightly in his eyes to know that it wasn't a good sign.  
"And what better message is there," he asked rhetorically, "than the bodies of his oh-so-revered guest and his only child?"

Aragorn was by no means surprised by these words, but Torel quite obviously was. All colour seemed to drain out of his face, and he took a step forward, half-shielding his cousin's body from view. Vonar didn't seem to realise what was happening, and only kept staring uncomprehendingly at Bodar and his men as if the fair-haired man had spoken a foreign language.

"You touch him and you will have to deal with me," Torel hissed at the other men, cold determination on his young, pale face. "That I swear to you by the Gods."

The blond man lazily turned to face the brown-haired youth, studying him with cool, calculating eyes that caused a small shiver of fear to run down Aragorn's back.  
"Ah yes," he said evenly with a small nod to himself. "_You _are the second part of our message."

"You would do that?" Aragorn asked, sounding only mildly interested. He slowly and carefully moved his left hand away from his sword, inconspicuously feeling for his knives, and once again wished the 'Fox' into the deepest and hottest pits of Angband for breaking his sword hand. "And risk Toran's wrath?"

"You misunderstand my master, ranger," the other man told him, shaking his head. "Toran hasn't kept up his side of the bargain. He will pay for that, just like his brother – and you."

Aragorn simply looked at the older man without saying anything, his silver-grey eyes hard and cold. For a moment Bodar looked confused, but then alarm and dim realisation began to show on his face. Before he could make a single movement, though – or, Valar forbid, talk some more – Aragorn had grasped the smaller one of his daggers, raised and thrown it. The knife buried itself in the fair-haired man's chest, in the exact same spot where his heart should be (if he possessed something like a heart, that was), and Aragorn took a moment to thank his elven instructors who had always insisted that "hitting a target _almost _in the middle is not good enough for a warrior of Imladris". Back then it had more often than not annoyed him or even openly frustrated him, but now their perseverance was apparently beginning to pay off.

The blond man stumbled backwards a few steps, into the arms of his men, before he raised confused eyes from the dagger's hilt and looked at Aragorn, clearly not comprehending what was going on and that he was already more than half-dead. For a second, remorse flickered to life inside Aragorn's breast, but he pushed it aside while he drew his sword, knowing that the only advantage he could use was surprise. He usually possessed quicker reflexes than most other humans, so even now he should be able to hold his own against the humans for a while. Now that he had eliminated their leader, they might stand a chance.

Ah, whom was he trying to kid, he asked himself wearily in the split second the men needed to realise what was going on and that their leader was dead. They didn't stand a real chance, not in a hundred years, and the only thing he had bought them was a bit more time.

But, Varda Elentári be his witness, he wouldn't have been able to stand more of Bodar's talk.

Aragorn shook his head sharply, forcing his aching body and his equally aching mind to concentrate on what was going on around him. Not a second too soon, too, since the men who were blocking the road in front of them recovered from their shock quickly enough, something that wasn't all that surprising now that he thought about it. They were mercenaries, after all, and no mercenary who couldn't adapt to new situations quickly lasted longer than maybe a couple of seasons.

The thought that it was really sad that he knew about such things flittered through his mind in the exact same moment the first man reached him, his sword held high and a soundless snarl on his face. Adrenaline coursing through his body, Aragorn side-stepped him easily, taking care not to bump into one of his companions in the process. The two of them were pale as ghosts and twice as jittery, and the last thing Aragorn wanted was to die because one of them had panicked and accidentally thrust his sword into his back.

It would be a stupid way to die, if nothing else.

Another stupid way to die would be to allow the man who had just rushed past him to skewer him, a small voice inside his head reminded him, and Aragorn dutifully brought his sword up, gritting his teeth as the force of the blow sent painful vibrations through his arm and into his torso. The two men remained locked like this for a second, both of them struggling to gain control over the other, but after a few seconds Aragorn's strength began to waver. His teachers had made sure that he was ambidextrous, surely, for that was a skill that could very well decide over life or death one day, but his left arm had never been as strong as his right one. Weakened as he was by illness and injury, he simply didn't possess the strength to the keep up the lock longer than a few moments.

Sensing more humans approach his position, Aragorn gritted his teeth against both pain and fear, knowing that he had no time to spare. With a rather complicated movement that he had only mastered after several months of intense training with his brothers, he freed his blade of the other man's sword and used his own momentum to step to the side. Once again the man moved past him, this time tripping heavily while he desperately tried to regain his balance, but it was already too late. As the man stumbled past him, the ranger's bandaged right arm shot out, the elbow connecting sharply with the back of the human's neck. The mercenary fell to the ground, instantly unconscious, his sword joining him on the muddy road as it feel from suddenly unresponsive fingers.

In the moment his opponent fell, sharp pain flared to life in his wrist, and Aragorn couldn't help but swear loudly in Dwarvish as its intensity registered fully in his brain. Suddenly feeling rather faint, he had to force himself to keep a firm grip on his sword, fighting off intense waves of pain that radiated from his broken wrist up his arm and down his torn back. The other humans didn't give him any time to recover, though, and soon he found himself hard-pressed to defend himself with any kind of efficiency.

While he was twisting to the side, doing his best to somehow keep control over his movements, Aragorn asked himself what his brothers would say if they could see him now, or Legolas for that matter. They would probably berate him for his foolish decision to leave his bed, he decided, avoiding yet another blade that was thrust at him and would almost have skewered him where he stood. Or they would laugh at him and his – admittedly rather pitiful – attempts to try to remember all their lessons that were usually sharp and vivid in his mind.

What his father would say he didn't need to think about. Elrond would probably kill his opponents, wearing that particular long-suffering, annoyed expression he seemed to adopt quite often in his or his brother's company, and would then drag him off to an improvised healing chamber to patch him up. And after that, Aragorn decided with a small, somewhat longing smile that greatly confused the man who was trying to run him through with his sword, he would haul him back to Rivendell, lock him in one of the cellars and throw away the key.

Valar, even that would be welcome right now.

A voice inside of his head that sounded suspiciously like Legolas told him insistently that he should really try and pay more attention to his surroundings if he wanted to survive the next few minutes, but it was almost too late. Caught up in his feverish musings and fully concentrated on fending off the three men that surrounded him, he would almost have missed the fourth one that was sneaking up on him from the left. Considering his injuries and the fact that it was almost too dark to see, even for the eyes of a Númenórean, it was an understandable mistake, but it was one that cost him dearly.

Whether it was his elven-trained senses, experience, or the simple knowledge that always assuming the worst was – at least in his case – always the best course of action, he didn't know, but a mere second before the man could bring his sword down onto his unprotected back, Aragorn's head shot up and he instinctively ducked to the side, almost crashing into one of his opponents in the process. Due to his quick reaction the young ranger escaped the death that had so closely been hovering over his head, but it hadn't been quick enough to keep him from injury. Even though Aragorn was severely pressed for breath, he couldn't help but cry out in pain as the other man's sharp blade cut through the fabric of his cloak and shirt, leaving a long, bloody cut on his left shoulder that ran almost to his elbow.

Ignoring the haze of pain that threatened to engulf his body and mind, Aragorn straightened back up and faced this new threat, urgency gnawing at his soul. He had been hard-pressed before, but there was no way he would be able to cope with an attack from both in front and behind. He was only one step away from being cut into ribbons as it was; if he didn't find a way to get rid of this man soon, he was dead.

And that was by no means an outcome he was willing to accept. He would be damned if he would allow Acalith to destroy this city and all its inhabitants; he would be damned if he would allow her to kill Tibron and his son and nephew who were the only reasons why Legolas and he were still alive. And, he added coldly as he parried a blow the man aimed at his neck, he would be damned if he allowed Gasur to win.

Knowing that he had only seconds before the men behind him caught on and decided to seize this wonderful chance to relieve him of his head, Aragorn threw all his anger, fear and simmering panic into his attack, and actually managed to force his attacker back. No one was more surprised by this success than he was, and for a moment he truly couldn't figure out what to do, his fevered brain simply not up to such a decision.

His confusion lasted only a moment, however, for his instincts almost immediately took over, mumbling something about stupid rangers and their inability to lie down and rest when their bodies told them to. Aragorn didn't even bother wondering how it was possible that his instincts were speaking to him and merely obeyed them, aiming a rather wicked stab at the other man's midsection. The mercenary jumped backwards, not looking very surprised and almost smug, as if he had anticipated something like this. His self-satisfied expression disappeared quickly though and was replaced with alarm, namely in the exact moment he realised that he had been backed into a corner.

The man cursed and tried to twist to the side, to free himself of this trap and gain more room to manoeuvre, but Aragorn was already upon him, cold determination on his pale, bruised features. Adrenaline lent him strength and his quick, elven-trained reflexes speed, and before the man could even fully understand what was going on, his sword had been knocked to the side by a frighteningly well-calculated blow. The stroke's momentum was subtly changed, and a moment later the long, gleaming blade swung around, burying itself in the man's shoulder and almost pinning him to the wall behind him.

The mercenary let go of his sword and collapsed with a scream, and while Aragorn was tugging at his blade, cursing himself for his slight miscalculation (the blade shouldn't have gone _that _deep!), he wondered why in the name of all that was holy no one was hearing them. They were creating enough ruckus for a small army, for Eru's sake! The blade finally slid free with a wet, sucking sound to which he had become used far too long ago, and Aragorn whirled around as quickly as he could, inwardly deciding that, more likely than not, no one _wanted _to hear them.

Elbereth, how he hated this town.

The thought didn't disappear as he blocked a blow that would have taken his head off; if anything, it grew even more. The three men he had been fighting before his last opponent had attempted to sneak up on him were still there, and if anything had changed at all, they were only madder. Which was not a very good development, he decided calmly while he moved – or rather stumbled – to the side, especially considering that his strength was beginning to give out. Contrary to what Legolas and his brothers thought, he did know the limits of his body, and right now he was only five minutes away from a complete shutdown.

The calm thought that he would need to end this in under five minutes was flittering through his mind when a quickly bitten-off scream of pain made his head turn around forcefully, something that caused the world to start swaying from side to side once more. It took him only a second to survey the situation fully, and only another to curse himself forcefully. He had been so concentrated on staying alive that he had almost completely forgotten about his companions.

Torel and Vonar were standing back to back, looking horribly like two children who had been cornered by a group of orcs. They were gripping their swords tightly, so tightly that their knuckles showed white through the skin, and their faces were almost as pale as his own. There were four men surrounding them, but one of them was limping heavily and looked more than ready to withdraw from the fight, and there was one more still figure that was lying in a heap on the ground. It looked as if they had managed to hold their own until now, even though Aragorn's eyes that were sharp for a human's had no trouble seeing the long cut that ran diagonally over Vonar's chest. Blood seeped from it in heavy drops, and the young boy looked about ready to faint. Aragorn could sympathise with that; he could still remember _his _first battle and injury, after all.

Well, they were still alive, so that was something, he told himself, whirling around and slashing at the three men pressing closer to him, trying to drive them back. It didn't work very well, and only one of them fell back slightly. Aragorn cursed again, redoubled urgency gnawing at him. The way Vonar looked, he wouldn't be able to defend himself much longer, which would lead to his death, and to Torel's as well.

The young ranger gritted his teeth and turned slightly to the side, bringing his blade up in a wide, deadly arc that would almost have decapitated the man to his left. The mercenary stumbled backwards to avoid the blow, pulling his comrade with him, thus giving Aragorn the opportunity he needed. With the thought that he really needed to stop turning his back to people who wanted to kill him, the ranger whirled around, and was behind one of the men who were trying to break through the two boys' defences with four quick steps.

Before the man even knew what was happening, Aragorn's sword hilt connected with his skull, sending him into unconsciousness. The man's body fell forward and knocked one of his companions off balance, and Aragorn couldn't help but grin. That had worked far better than he had thought. It was about damned time something worked out around here, too.

Aragorn had barely time to nod at the two very relieved-looking cousins, for the mercenaries had quickly got over their initial surprise at his actions. In a matter of seconds they were all but surrounded by the remaining men, who, Aragorn noted idly, were still outnumbering them two-to-one. Considering that the odds had been almost four-to-one when all of this had started, it wasn't all that bad, but the young ranger was realistic enough to know that it wouldn't last. He wasn't up to fighting longer than a few minutes, and neither were Torel and Vonar. Adrenaline could only get you so far, after all.

Barely blocking a far too forceful blow, Aragorn had to back away, right into something unyielding and rather hard. Pain shot through his wounded back, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the momentary spell of panic that hit him at the unexpected contact – for a moment he had really forgotten about the building at his back and had thought he had connected with one of his opponents. The pain in his back receded somewhat, enough for him to feel that there was something wrong about the wall at his back. There was something that protruded from it, something roughly rectangular he couldn't place immediately.

It was a testament to the bad state he was in that he couldn't make sense of this riddle immediately, and it took him a full four seconds until he finally understood what was poking him in the back: A door handle of some sort, roughly hewn and not exactly refined, which was only logical since the building behind them was a warehouse.

Even though it had taken Aragorn quite a while to figure all this out, he didn't need much time to act on this newest revelation. Avoiding a stab that had been aimed at his midsection by stumbling to the side, he shot his two companions a quick look to make sure that they were still holding their own before he turned slightly and tugged at the door. It took him a few seconds during which he almost got himself killed twice – something that was only avoided due to his quick reflexes – since his right hand was useless and he was still grasping his sword with the left, but in the end the door opened the tiniest bit.

Aragorn wasted no time in shoving one of his boots into the crack between the door and its frame, and a second later the door was half-open, revealing a long, dark, dusty corridor that seemed to lead to what appeared to be a storeroom of some sort. Aragorn couldn't see how big it was, but something about it – maybe the depth of the darkness that was lying over the room – made him suspect that it was very large indeed.

The young ranger turned back from the half-open door and avoided being impaled on a short sword only by a desperate, swiping thrust of his own blade. He didn't need long to weigh their options: He didn't know what was inside that house, but he did know that they would be dead in a few minutes if they didn't do something. There could be a troll inside that warehouse, and it would still not make their situation any worse.

Grasping Vonar's shirtsleeve and yanking him out of the way of a blow that would have taken the boy's head off, he pushed him through the doorway, barely blocking another thrust which one of the more persistent men aimed at the two of them.  
"Torel!" he called to the boy's cousin. "Inside, quickly!"

The brown-haired youth's head turned around as he was still pushing the blade of one of his opponents to the side, and he needed only a second to come to the same conclusion Aragorn had reached a moment earlier. With a few quick strides he had reached the ranger's side and disappeared inside, neatly side-stepping a blow aimed at his heart. If Aragorn hadn't been so busy backing away into the direction of the now open door, he would have breathed a sigh of relief, which would have turned out to be a bit rash, too.

The men might have been surprised by his actions, but they were experienced enough to recover quickly. Aragorn had just managed to slip through the doorway and had thrown the door closed behind him when the remaining five men regained their senses and rushed after him. Aragorn was leaning against the door, pressing his right shoulder against it and fumbling awkwardly for the latch with his left, when the five remaining mercenaries threw themselves against the wooden door with all their strength.

Even if he had been up to his full strength, the ranger wouldn't have been strong enough to withstand this kind of force. He was literally thrown backwards several feet, only by sheer luck managing to stay on his feet and keeping a firm grip on his sword. Even though he had been dreading something like this, he hadn't been exactly prepared for it, and so Aragorn was almost overwhelmed by the pain that swept through his battered body as it fiercely protested against such treatment. Every body has its limit, even those of Númenóreans who were stubborn to a fault.

By the time Aragorn had, with an unparalleled amount of willpower, pushed the pain down sufficiently for him to be able to think, the men had thrown the door open and were pushing their way into the building. Even despite the fact that he was still reeling with pain, Aragorn took a second to admit to himself that these men were relentless and apparently firmly determined to fulfil their mission. The fact that Vonar, Torel and he had killed and/or incapacitated six of their companions wouldn't be helping either, he guessed.

The young ranger had just recovered his ability to lift his left arm when the first man reached him, murderous intent shining in his eyes as if someone had reached inside his head and turned on a light. Aragorn tried to keep his position, vaguely hoping to give the two younger men the chance to escape, but he simply didn't have enough strength left. He barely managed to block the blows that rained down on him, and only the fact that the corridor was too narrow for two men to stand abreast saved him from a rather messy death. He found himself being pushed back further and further, though, and before he truly knew what was happening, he was in the main room of the building, the five men following closely behind.

The mercenaries stopped for a second, trying to get used the darkness that filled the space, giving Aragorn the time to see that the room was indeed huge. It would have looked smaller with some sort of cargo occupying the vast space, but now it was empty, with only a few barrels and empty crates standing here and there. At the ceiling he could see several pulleys, some still with large nets dangling from them, and there was also a kind of gallery visible that was apparently part of the second storey of the building. At the far corner of the room there was a small spiral staircase that seemed to lead up there, looking dusty and unused. A few of the nets at the ceiling still had some crates or barrels in them that softly swung from side to side, causing creaking noises that only added to the forlorn atmosphere that filled the abandoned warehouse.

All in all, it was a rather unglamorous place to die, Aragorn decided darkly as the men began to move forward once more, the sparse moonlight that filtered in from somewhere above catching on their naked blades and making them gleam threateningly. Since his father had revealed his heritage to him, he had known that the chances that he would die in battle were in fact rather large, but he had never thought he would die in a place like this, alone.

The hope that he would somehow manage to get out of here diminished even further once the men reached him; it seemed that they, too, had got tired of this little game of cat and mouse. Their attacks had a renewed ferocity behind them, and the part of Aragorn that had still enough energy for reasonable thought decided calmly that there was absolutely no way he could survive this. The only reason why he was still alive was his stubborn unwillingness to allow himself to be beaten, but that wouldn't be enough. His defences were crumbling so fast he was actually surprised he wasn't dead yet, and in fifteen or twenty seconds he wouldn't be able dodge or blow or block a stroke.

And then, Aragorn thought very, very calmly, he would die.

He was just stumbling to the side to avoid being run through, his sluggish thoughts fixed on the fact that he would very much have liked to see his family and friends once more, when a low, creaking sound registered in his mind, reminding him of something he couldn't immediately name. For the next few seconds he was far too busy avoiding being cut into pieces to worry about that particular question, but then it hit him, making him frown openly even despite the throbbing pain in his left shoulder that flared with every movement he made: Esgaroth. The sound reminded him of the town of the Lake-men, of the large ships he had seen when he had been there with Legolas last winter, of the large ships with their flapping sails and moaning ropes.

If Aragorn had had any strength left, he would have shaken his head. Just why would that sound remind him of Lake-town, he asked himself dreamily while he desperately tried to convince his body to move to escape the next blow he could already see coming, why would it remind him of ships? There were no ships here … ships with ropes … ropes … the ceiling! Aragorn's thoughts came to a complete stop as his head flew up, his eyes staring intently at the ceiling with its pulleys. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get the fuzzy world into sharper focus. First he thought that he was imagining things, but then he saw that he was in fact not. The ropes that were attached to the wooden pulley directly above him _were _moving.

His fevered brain struggled valiantly with the question of what was happening here and finally gave up with the mental equivalent of a shrug and a small whimper. Aragorn frowned again, still trying to understand what was going on, when a far louder screech filled the air, and the net above his head began to sway dangerously, the large wooden barrels inside of it moving against each other in a decidedly threatening manner. This time, his opponents looked up as well, surprise painted all over their faces.

"Strider! Move!"

"Out of the way, ranger!"

Two voices he should know yelled at him, floating through the air from somewhere above him, and once again his instincts took over. At one moment he was watching the net open almost as if in slow-motion, at the next he was throwing himself to the side, rolling over a fiercely protesting shoulder and hitting the cold ground with a thud. Even while he was still moving, an ominous, rumbling sound filled the air that was soon joined by loud crashes and cries of pain and fear. The noise subsided after several long moments, and Aragorn slowly opened his eyes he couldn't even remember closing and painfully rolled onto his side, coughing as he breathed in the dust-filled air.

The sight that greeted him was far too unpleasant to be viewed for longer than absolutely necessary, and with an inner shiver he allowed himself to sink back down onto the floor, lying on his back and trying to get his breathing under control. He was still trying to push the image of dark, blood-stained wood and broken limbs out of his head when his restlessly moving eyes caught a movement on the gallery to his right. A curly head appeared in his line of vision, a streak of dirt running diagonally over the face from left eyebrow to right cheekbone.

"Did we get them?" another voice asked eagerly.

The curly-haired boy nodded solemnly in an unquestionably pleased manner.  
"Congratulations, Vonar. Five out of five."

A second passed, but then Vonar's face appeared next to his cousin's, looking very pale in the darkness of the room.  
"Are you all right, Strider? Don't move; we're coming down."

Aragorn would almost have laughed at that, and if he hadn't felt like a half-drowned kitten, he might actually have done so. He didn't think he could have moved even if he had wanted to, but he wouldn't tell them that. After all, who was he to destroy these two young ones' illusions?

The soft sounds of tapping feet that were climbing down the spiral staircase still registered in his now thoroughly exhausted brain, but Aragorn didn't really notice. He was far too busy staying awake and preventing his brain from leaking out of his ears as it apparently wanted to do, and so he was rather surprised when the two younger men's faces suddenly appeared in his line of sight, looking pale, dirty and still very frightened.

"Strider?" Vonar asked once again, one of his hands hovering over Aragorn's form as if he didn't really know where he should touch him without hurting him. "Strider? Are you all right? Can you get up?"

Aragorn frowned at that question. Could he get up? And if yes, did he _want _to get up? Right now he was rather happy where he was, namely flat on his back. He was still debating this particular question when a small voice in his head reminded him of Acalith's plan and everything that was at stake, at Aragorn gave a small, annoyed sigh. If he was perfectly honest, he didn't really care all that much about Aberon and its oh-so-hospitable inhabitants. The two boys leaning over him looked at each other, clearly worried, and Aragorn sighed again, this time more loudly. He might not care about Aberon itself, but he did care about these two and their families and would not let them come to harm – with the very possible exception of Toran, of course.

He shook his head inwardly. He hated it when his conscience meddled in things that were none of its business.

"Of course I can," he finally retorted, his voice sounding weak and hoarse even to his own ears. "Give me a hand, will you?"

The look that the two of them exchanged was almost as openly incredulous as Elrond's would have been had he been here, but Aragorn stopped that train of thought right then and there as he gingerly reached for the hand Torel extended to him. He really had to stop comparing random people to his foster-father; doing so would not make him appear any faster and only served to depress him further, if such a thing was even possible.

After half a minute of grinding his teeth against the pain raging through his body and trying to keep up a stoic, manly façade, Aragorn was finally on his feet, doing his best to ignore the way the warehouse was swaying from side to side. A lot of things were doing that lately, after all, so perhaps he should just try to get used to it.

Vonar gave the wide, far too bright eyes of the ranger a quick look, decided that the chances of him being able to retrieve his weapon himself were slim at best, and bent down, picking up the other man's bloodied sword. His own wound protested against moving, and he had to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from moaning openly. Gods, he thought while he was straightening up, how did Strider do it? He had just a cut and was already willing to give his right arm for some pain-numbing herbs!

The young man turned back around to Aragorn and pressed the blade into the ranger's left hand. The dark-haired man grasped it instinctively, blood-smeared fingers wrapping tightly around the pommel of his blade, and Vonar once again asked himself if the ranger was somehow able to draw strength from his sword. It certainly looked that way.

"Your sword, Strider," he said, feeling very foolish as he stated the obvious. The other man merely nodded, his eyes slowly travelling over the sword's dulled blade, and Vonar felt more than saw his cousin shift uncomfortably. "What now?"

Aragorn's head came up slightly and he forced himself to concentrate. When that proved to be too hard, he decided to listen to his instincts once more. There must be a reason why they told him to get to the docks as quickly as possible, he guessed.

"Now?" he asked almost dreamily. "Now we get out of here, just in case the dear Bodar and his men have some reinforcements waiting for them somewhere."

The two boys nodded fervently and quite obviously had to force themselves to keep to the ranger's somewhat slower pace. It was clear that they would have liked nothing better than be able to run out of this room. While the three of them were walking down the dark, dusty corridor, Aragorn felt how some strength returned to him, and with it some ability to concentrate. Perhaps it was because he was leaving the horrifying scene behind him that had been created when the barrels had fallen down upon his adversaries; perhaps the mere fact that he was putting some distance between himself and their broken bodies was enough.

The ranger shuddered openly. He knew that that particular image would haunt his dreams for quite a while.

"How did you know what to do?" he asked finally, finding out that walking and speaking at the same time wasn't all that easy, at least not now.

Next to him, Torel shrugged, wincing slightly when a shallow cut he had received began to hurt anew. He shot Vonar a worried look. His cousin was far too pale for his liking.  
"My father owns this warehouse."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows as they stepped out onto the street and turned to look at him, giving his surroundings a sweeping glance in the process.  
"I beg your pardon?"

"The building belongs to my father," Torel repeated. "It has been emptied since he wants to sell it. He has shifted his focus from beer to luxury products in the past few years – less space is required, while your make a bigger profit at the same time. When I was younger, I and my brother and sister played here quite often. My father once almost killed me because I had opened one of the nets while we were playing, and when I realised where we were…"

The young man couldn't finish the sentence, a shiver racing through him. Vonar looked equally aggrieved, and Aragorn could very well understand why. It was probably safe to assume that neither of them had ever before literally crushed five other people.  
"I am glad that you did," he told the younger man sincerely, placing his right hand on his shoulder and ignoring the pain that the movement brought. "You saved my life, both of you. I thank you."

Torel merely nodded mutely, but his head quickly swivelled around when Vonar slumped against the stone wall next to him. The adrenaline in the younger boy's body had finally dissipated, and the severity of his injury caught up with him, as did the pain.  
"Vonar? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am," Vonar mumbled, trying to push himself back into a standing position. He had a hard time trying, though, for even more than the injury itself shock began to beleaguer him, draining his strength. "Give … give me a … second…"

"No, he is not," Aragorn shook his aching head, quickly examining the long, deep cut that ran from the younger man's left shoulder all the way down to his right hipbone. It was not life-threatening – at least not yet – but it was serious. "He is not," he repeated, softly.

Torel was already shrugging out of his torn coat and began to rip it into strips, clumsily beginning to wrap them around his younger cousin's middle. Aragorn merely stood next to him and watched, knowing that he wasn't exactly up to doing a better job himself. After the younger man had finished bandaging his cousin's wound, he turned to Aragorn, an expression on his face that clearly stated that he knew perfectly well that he needed to surprise him if he wanted this to work out. Before the ranger even knew what was happening, Torel had wrapped up the profusely bleeding shoulder wound he had sustained during the fight. Aragorn looked down at it, a little bewildered. He was feeling so generally awful that he had truly forgotten about it.

Torel fidgeted next to him, nervously shifting from one foot to the other while he shot his white-faced cousin worried looks, and Aragorn nodded inwardly as he came to a decision.  
"Torel, take your cousin to your uncle. Tell him what has happened; tell him that we need help as soon as possible. We don't have any time to find some sort of proof that the council would accept. Tell him that he and those he thinks reliable need to take care of these building sites. I will go to the one closest to here, to the docks."

Vonar's head came up at these words and he started to protest, but Torel merely put a hand on his younger relative's shoulder and led him a few paces away, beginning to talk softly and insistently. Aragorn did not try to listen to their conversation, nor was he entirely certain that he would have been able to had he wanted, but even so he knew that Torel was having a hard time convincing his cousin. In the end, though, the younger boy lowered his head, his longish, brown curls falling into his eyes and obscuring his features. After a few moments he looked up again, turning wide, concerned eyes on the ranger who stood a few steps away.

"I will admit that I am out of my depth and have absolutely no idea what to do, but I daresay that you are, too, Strider."

Aragorn smiled at the younger man, true affection in his eyes.  
"Trust me when I tell you that I have been in far too many situations such as this one, Vonar. I have more experience than I'd like. I will be fine."

Once again the curly-haired youth merely looked at him incredulously, but in the end he relented, sighing.  
"As you wish, Strider. I will tell my father what is going on and he will bring help, of that I am certain. Please, do not do anything that would require me to talk to your elven friends."

Aragorn's smile widened even despite the fact that the strange, grey veil over his eyes was beginning to grow thicker and thicker.  
"I think we are long past that stage, Vonar."

"True," the younger man mumbled darkly. He shrugged slightly, apparently resigning himself to his fate. "May the Gods watch over you, Strider. I will be back as quickly as possible."

"I know," the ranger smiled back, feeling more than a little relieved that the two young ones were apparently beginning to reason. "Go with the blessings of the One."

Vonar nodded and turned to his cousin.  
"Be careful, Torel. Please, be careful."

"You know I will be, little one," Torel said with a teasing smile and reached out to ruffle his cousin's hair. "Don't let yourself be caught." Vonar glared at him and was about to turn, and he added softly, "I am sorry for dragging you into all this, Vonar. Gods, I am so sorry."

The younger boy shook his head sharply.  
"Even if you hadn't dragged me out of the city to look for the two of them, I would have caught on and made you tell me what was going on. I would always have helped you, Torel, you know that."

"Yes," Torel nodded quietly. "Yes, I do know that." He took a deep breath and forced a smile onto his lips. "Take care, cousin."

Vonar simply looked at him with wide eyes, looking impossibly young, before he nodded and turned around, walking slowly up the street on wobbly, unsteady legs. Aragorn watched him leave, feeling very pleased indeed, and only when he turned back around to start making his way down to the docks and came face to face with a thoroughly unapologetic-looking Torel did he realise that there was something wrong with the whole picture.

"Torel?"

Torel barely turned to look at him, almost as white-faced as Vonar now, and began walking down the street, forcing Aragorn to follow him, which turned out to be anything but easy.  
"Do not try to dissuade me, ranger. I will not leave you."

Aragorn sighed, doing his best not to stumble over his own two feet.  
"Somebody has to tell your uncle what is going on, Torel."

"Yes," the younger human agreed evenly. "That is why I have used all the influence I have over Vonar. His wound is deep, but not so deep that he won't make it back to Uncle Tibron. You know this as well as I do, ranger."

"Torel…" Aragorn tried once again.

"No!" the young man exclaimed. "My father has been working with Hurag for longer than I know, for longer than I care to think about! He has tainted his honour, and my family's, by his actions, and I will not add to our shame by leaving you alone when you need help the most! Great Ones, you can barely _stand_! How could I leave you now and allow _you _to risk _your _life for _my _town and _my _family and look at myself ever again? Tell me, how?"

Aragorn knew that he should be saying something, anything, to convince Torel that he didn't need his help, but anything he _could _have said would have been an outright lie. The younger man was right, after all, he _was _barely able to stand, and he very much doubted that he would get anywhere without help. Any kind of help.

"Very well," he nodded his head wearily, his left hand once again gripping the pommel of his sheathed sword. Aragorn frowned. His sheathed sword? When had he sheathed it? Valar, he thought urgently, he really needed to finish this soon. "Lead the way, then."

An eternity later – in truth it had been hardly more than fifteen minutes – Aragorn had to admit to himself that that particular decision just might have been the right one. Without Torel's help, he would not have made it farther than to the end of the street. The young man obviously knew the city very well, and he steered the two of them around the larger streets and through little alleyways that were dark and deserted. This time, Aragorn was actually glad about the deep shadows that lay over the streets, both because it hid them from any more of Hurag's henchmen and because it hid _him _from Torel's eyes. Aragorn would rather have walked up to Barad-dûr and offered Sauron his services than admit it, but by now he was certain that it wasn't the walls of the houses that were swaying back and forth. It was him.

In the end, they reached their destination, which almost came as a surprise to the by now thoroughly exhausted ranger. While they were walking past dark buildings and barks of all sizes and shapes, the sound of lapping water sounding overly loud in his ears and reminding him more than a bit of Rivendell, Aragorn thought darkly that he had expected at least one more catastrophe to befall them ere they made it here. Something really spectacular, he mused, doing his best to follow Torel stealthily, like running into Hurag himself, or finding out that Gasur had decided to pay Aberon a little visit, or perhaps…

He was still thinking about that particular question when Torel stopped dead in his tracks, peered around the corner they had just reached, and moved back as if he had just come face to face with some horrifying demons. Aragorn, caught up in his musings and concentrated on staying on his feet, did not notice his companion's actions in time, and so he collided rather painfully with the younger man's back. Torel stumbled forward a bit, cursing softly under his breath, but the half-step he had taken forwards was apparently enough to grant him another view of what he had seen earlier and he shut his mouth with an almost audible snap.

Aragorn needed some time to regain control over his suddenly very rebellious body, but once he had managed to do so he inched forwards until he stood behind Torel and peered over his shoulder. Even despite the fact that he was literally only a few minutes away from collapsing and losing consciousness, his eyes had no trouble seeing what lay in front of him, and he, too, swore softly under his breath, using one of his favourite Dwarvish epitaphs learned in Erebor.

In front of them, no more than maybe a hundred yards away, was the dam, rising into the dark night air like an impregnable wall. It was a large, earthen levee that had been cleverly integrated into the town walls, and was looking deceptively solid. The docks lay to their right, the street leading up to them rising rather steeply. Whoever had constructed them had known his job, and so they had been built on a rise, barring the way of the water. Under normal circumstances, the pier lay several metres above the level of the river, and even now Aragorn could see that there was more than enough space between the dark waves of the Mitheithel and the street level. The river would have to rise quite a bit more before it would be able to threaten the town in this place.

That wasn't really necessary either, a small voice inside the young ranger's head noted dryly. The docks might be safe, but the dams next to them most certainly weren't. Even the most nearsighted troll would have been able to see the group of men that were crowding around what was looking like a building site – it was indeed hard not to see them, considering that several of them were holding torches in their hands. Several more men were standing some distance away from the others, facing away from them, and Aragorn had no problems at all to identify them as guards. He couldn't really see what the rest of the men were doing, both because they were standing too closely together and because the world was spinning slowly once more, but he doubted that he would like it very much.

The dark-haired ranger closed his eyes and took a deep breath, ignoring his side's and back's protests. He didn't need to possess his father's foresight to know that these were Hurag's men. Who else would be here, at this time of night, and especially in this night? Even though he had somehow known that he had been right in his suspicions of Acalith's intentions, it was like a blow to the stomach to actually see these men here. Strongly suspecting someone of calmly plotting mass murder was one thing, seeing them work on it was quite another.

His instinct nodded calmly in a manner that very clearly stated "We told you so, didn't we?" – he had long ago stopped wondering about his instincts – apparently not in the least bit surprised. Somewhat heartened by this, Aragorn opened his eyes again. Well then, he told himself coolly, he would have to stop them, wouldn't he?

Another part of him merely started laughing uproariously at that rather positive thought. Torel seemed to share this particular feeling, his eyes darting from the quite big group of men to his bloody companion and back. He finally turned to Aragorn, looking very much as if he was hoping against hope for some sort of miracle.   
"Now what do we do?"

Aragorn didn't answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the group of men in front of them. His gaze wandered from the dam to the guards to the men standing around the "building site", and only then did he turn to look at his young companion.  
"Are you up to a little playacting?"

"What?" Torel asked incredulously, in a matter that unambiguously stated that he thought that Aragorn had hit his head one too many times.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and returned his attention to the scene in front of him, his eyes fixing calmly on the two guards that were standing closest to them, wearing dark cloaks that hid most of their faces from view.  
"What size do you think those two over there are wearing?"

"What!" Torel repeated. His eyes followed the other's look and came to rest on the two guards who were watching the street with expressions of long-suffering boredom. One could literally see how the pieces fell into place, and the young man swallowed hard. "Oh no."

"Oh yes. If we do not surprise them, we are dead," Aragorn told him calmly, still looking at the guards. They were standing a bit apart from their companions, half-hidden by a stack of crates. If they managed to get close to them without being seen or heard, they might stand a chance. "These two are our best chance."

"Strider…"

"We don't have any time to spare," Aragorn shook his head as he slowly drew his remaining dagger with his left. His shoulder screamed in protest at the movement, but he ignored it as best as he could. "Stay close to me and try not to step on anything. We need to act quickly."

"But…" Torel began, but the ranger was already gone.

The young man watched him press himself to the wall to their right and dart around the corner, almost instantly disappearing in the shadows the houses next to them cast. It was clear that neither the guards nor anyone else had noticed anything, which, considering the smoothness and soundlessness of the manoeuvre, did not surprise Torel. The only question was how the ranger still managed to move like that, looking like he did.

Torel looked behind him, almost as if expecting some sort of last-minute inspiration to appear. It did not, of course, and so the young man merely took a deep breath, hefted his sword, and, mumbling curses under his breath, hurried after the ranger who was creeping into the direction of the two guards with the purposeful, soundless movements of a wrathful ghost.

Oh no, he thought to himself. This was _not _going to end well.   
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
It was almost as if time had stood still and someone had suddenly pulled a lever, turning it back on. Who knew, maybe someone had; if there was one thing that should never be doubted, it was the Valar's sometimes rather warped interpretation of what was humourous and what was not.

Even though a small part of Legolas' thoughts was occupied with just these musings, an incomparably larger part was very busy with throwing himself to the left and hoping that the elven warrior behind him had understood the curt signals he had been trying to give him and was throwing himself to the right. The elven prince's shoulder connected with the cold, damp stone wall of the hallway, sending a wave of pain through his body, but he couldn't help but give an inward sigh of relief. He had connected with the wall after all and not with another elf, which meant that the warrior had understood what he had been trying to tell him.

While Legolas was pushing himself off the wall, he resolved to ask Elrohir for the name of this particular elf and have him recommended for his keen intelligence. Considering the current mental condition, the warrior must be some sort of mind-reader to have understood what he had been signalling.

Valar, he himself had a hard time understanding what he was doing.

The larger part of him that was rather busy trying to keep his body moving and on its feet hissed at the curiously detached part to shut up, and Legolas decided that it just might be on the right track. After all, he concluded seriously, moving as fast as he possibly could at the moment, it was probably a good idea to pay attention to your surroundings when you were trying to break through the ranks of Eru-knew-how-many humans who wanted to take you captive and hand you over to their insane captain. Again.

That he was very correct became abundantly clear as soon as he reached his goal, namely the next best human he could get his hands on. It was clear that the man was completely surprised by his sudden appearance, something that was even understandable. He had, after all, only two seconds ago been at the other end of the hallway, and even though Gasur might have prepared his men for the fact that elves possessed much faster reflexes than humans, it seemed that he had failed to mention just _how _much faster they really were.

Before the man even knew what hit him, the hilt of Legolas' knife connected with the side of his head, and even while he was still collapsing, the wood-elf gave him a sharp kick, sending the already unconscious body crashing into his companions. The soldier's body impacted with the other men, sending them stumbling backwards amidst loud clatter and even louder curses. Legolas didn't even realise that he was grinning darkly in satisfaction while he was moving to the side, neatly avoiding another guard who had recovered from his surprise much faster than his colleague and was right now trying to skewer him with his spear.

The sound of metal clashing against metal and dull thuds that could only be bodies hitting the floor or wall could be heard behind him, alerting him to the fact that the rest of their party had apparently thrown themselves at the soldiers. Even though none of them had been able to talk to the others, so completely surprised had they been, it was quite clear that Elrohir and he had come to the same decision: They would rather be dead than captured by Gasur and his soldiers who seemed to be just as mad as he. Legolas had certain doubts about their ability to escape this particular situation unscathed or even alive, but going down fighting had never looked this good to him. He would be damned if he allowed himself to be taken once more.

A string of curses involving dark-haired elves and doom, blood and pain sounded somewhere behind and to the right of him, and Legolas couldn't help but grin while he was dancing to the side to avoid another man's sword. Only members of Lord Elrond's family could make someone this mad in less than ten seconds, so that meant that at least Elrohir was still unharmed. He was in fact rather sure that only Aragorn would have managed to infuriate someone more quickly than the twins – the man seemed to have a certain knack for that, one that frequently got him injured, tortured and nearly killed.

Which was exactly what would happen to him if he wasn't careful, a small voice in his head informed him, and Legolas forced himself to concentrate. The only thing that was keeping him upright right now was what had to be the largest amount of adrenaline ever detected in an elven body, and even that wouldn't be enough for long. He could already feel himself weakening, the quick movements aimed at avoiding the men's weapons proving to be too much for him, and he knew that his strength would give out, sooner or later.

Considering how things had been going lately, probably sooner.

For a few moments, all his attention was focussed on the task of not getting himself killed, and he had neither the time nor the opportunity to see how the other elven warriors were faring. He did, however, keep an eye out for Gasur, even though it didn't surprise him in the slightest that he did not see him. The man was a coward, after all, as he had proven countless times, among them when Celylith had threatened to drink his blood, all these months ago in Lake-town.

Legolas would have smiled wistfully if he hadn't been so busy slamming a man headfirst into a wall. Even though he was thanking Ilúvatar and all the Valar he could think of for keeping his silver-haired friend away from here, he would have felt a lot better if Celylith had been with him. There was probably no one who knew him as well as his childhood friend, and if there was one thing one could always count on, it was the fact that he took attacks on his friends and especially his lords very seriously, and very personally.

And no matter how mischievous and sometimes downright crazy Celylith could be, he was not someone Legolas liked to see when truly infuriated. Under normal circumstances, that was. Right now, he would have been positively thrilled to see him like that.

He had barely finished his deliberations when yet another soldier suddenly appeared in front of him, making an appearance that was so sudden that Legolas would almost have suspected that he had grown up from the earth, like an especially fast-growing tree. He moved considerably faster than your average tree, though, even though he was not half as pleasant company. Before Legolas truly knew what was going on, he had to bring up his knife to block a particularly wicked, sweeping blow that would nearly have taken his left arm off. Even though it was in fact the arm that was injured, Legolas was quite attached to it – he'd had it for more than 2500 years, after all – and so the elven prince gritted his teeth and did his best to push his adversary's blade to the side.

While the man might not be overly smart, good-looking and clean, he was one thing: Determined. Legolas didn't know if it was because he took pride in his work, because he knew that his insane superior was somewhere around here, watching him, or because he simply couldn't stand him or his kind, but the man refused to budge, pitting his raw strength against Legolas'. On any other day, Legolas would have laughed and pushed the man to the side, but today all he could do was hold his ground. He knew that it was a position unbefitting a warrior of Mirkwood and most certainly a son of Thranduil, but it was simply the best he could do.

The thing that probably saved Legolas from a drawn-out pushing contest that he would rather inevitably lose was the fact that the man in front of him seemed to possess not a bit of patience. When he realised that the pale, bruised elf in front of him was a lot stronger than he looked, he took a step backwards, freeing his blade with a jerky movement. In the same moment in which Legolas dreamily thought that his sword master in Mirkwood would have had his head for a manoeuvre like this, the man brought his long, heavy sword down in a stroke that was quite clearly aimed at gutting him like a fish.

Legolas might have been in a lot of pain and only a few minutes away from losing his composure and/or consciousness, but his common sense hadn't abandoned him completely yet. In the two seconds he had before the man's sword connected with his midsection, he had quite correctly decided that there was no way he would be able to block this blow, not in the condition he was in and not with a knife like this as his only weapon.

Cursing under his breath, the fair-haired elf dropped to the floor, escaping the blow by the narrowest of margins. He literally felt the blade pass overhead, but he couldn't really concern himself with that for long, because he had chosen an especially bad spot for this particular manoeuvre. The place next to where he had been standing was already occupied, namely by the feet of a man who was right now preparing to stab one of Elrohir's warriors. The man looked down, surprise and fleeting pain on his face when Legolas' weight landed on his left foot, and Legolas would almost have laughed at this. His body was not happy about his sudden movements and the rather hard contact with the floor and was making its unhappiness known only too plainly.

He didn't have much time to ponder it. The man whose blow he had been escaping, the one with the impossibly long sword, was back, having recovered his balance quickly. Legolas had only a second to acknowledge the danger he was in, and with a movement that was far quicker than anything he should have been capable of at the moment he rolled to the side, ignoring the way his injured ribs and numerous burns screamed in pain. It was not a second too early either, for the man's sword buried itself right where he had been a moment ago with a thoroughly ugly sound.

Unfortunately for all the humans involved, it was a spot that was occupied by the other man's foot. A howl of pain could be heard, and while Legolas was picking himself off the ground, swaying unsteadily from side to side as he tried to move as quickly as he could, he had to grin darkly at the picture of the soldier trying to remove his sword from his comrade's foot. He was still tugging on the long blade when Legolas was back, the gleaming knife in his hand moving faster than mortal eyes could follow. A moment later the man fell to the ground in a motionless heap, collapsing on top of his wounded colleague, red blood beginning to stain both of them.

Having eliminated two enemies at once, Legolas had a brief moment to get his bearings, and what he saw did not please him in the slightest. Behind him he could see Elrohir, apparently unharmed except for one or two smaller scratches, and Isál was there, too, chains that were now coloured a bloody red in his hands and cold fury on his face as he threw himself at one opponent after the other. None of the elves seemed to have been incapacitated or, Eru forbid, killed, but it was clear that that would only be a matter of time.

They were badly outnumbered and outmanoeuvred as well, if he was completely honest, and he had no desire to be honest at the moment. There were simply too many humans, armed too well and too determined to fulfil their captain's bidding. The corridor was too narrow for the elves to employ their superior speed and agility; the humans were closing in on them and would simply crush them in a few minutes. It did you little good if you were able to react more quickly than your opponent if you simply didn't have any space to move.

As if he had sensed his friend's dark gaze, Elrohir looked up, having shoved a soldier backward just like Legolas had a few moments ago. Their eyes met for a short moment, understanding and consent mirroring in blue and grey orbs, before Elrohir raised his head and squared his shoulder, automatically moving sideways when a spear came out of nowhere and only just missed his hip.

"_Pelio!_" he called, his voice rising seemingly effortlessly above the noisy chaos in the narrow corridor. _"Pelio a doltho! Leitho i-vellon adar nín; drego e dôr hen! Mabo i-vuindor nín a rado na bar vín!"_

He paused for a moment to avoid yet another man who had apparently thought it a good idea to try and run him through with his sword. With the grace inherent to his kind, he moved to the side, and a moment later he was very busy fending off this newest attack, therefore giving the rest of the warriors the chance to follow his command.

It was a chance they did not seize, however. If anything, they just looked at him with that particular expression Legolas had seen many times in the past, the one that was quite clearly saying "Ignore him, he is talking nonsense again." Isál in particular looked as disbelieving as if Elrohir had ordered him to hand over his weapons to these nice gentlemen and have a cup of tea with Gasur. It was clear that none of them intended to abandon their lord.

Elrohir finally dispatched his current opponent with a rather unfriendly trick Elladan and he had thought up several hundred years ago and returned his attention to his warriors, frowning when he saw that they hadn't moved an inch or even tried to break through the ranks of the soldiers. It was possible, of that he was certain; while it was nigh impossible to break through together, the men wouldn't be able to concentrate on each one of them with equal fervour.

_"Avo dhartho anim!" _he ordered sharply, locking eyes with Isál and giving him the _look_. _"Bado, si!"_

For a moment, nothing happened, but then most of the warriors nodded their heads slightly, if they could spare the time, that was. There were, after all, not many people brave or suicidal enough to disobey a son of Elrond when he gave you a direct order. The warriors that were fighting at the edges of this rather impressive mêlée were beginning to seize the chances they had been ignoring until now in their attempt to stay close to their lord, their captain and their comrades, and it didn't take long for the first of them to fight his way through the human lines. Before one soldier had truly realised what was going on, the elven warrior had knocked the last human who was standing in his way into the nearest wall and had disappeared around the corner, angry shouts from the humans and encouragement from the elves following him all the way.

Elrohir grinned happily – all these lessons from his father and Glorfindel in how to best intimidate people were apparently beginning to pay off – but he soon had to occupy his mind with other things. The fact that his warriors were heeding his orders and were trying to escape on their own had the consequence that some of the humans were following them and were therefore out of the picture, but there were still more than enough left. During the course of the last few minutes he had been pushed over to the right side of the corridor, away from most of his men, and the humans seemed rather intent on keeping him there. 

Cursing these particular humans once again in terms of which his father would most certainly not have approved, Elrohir raised his sword and slammed the hilt into the side of a human's head. The man collapsed almost immediately – served him right for getting distracted like this, Elrohir thought absent-mindedly – and the dark-haired elf turned his attention to a group of three more soldiers who had apparently decided to tackle the problem he presented together. Elbereth's stars above, the twin thought, almost amused. They were beginning to get intelligent all of the sudden.

A particularly vicious oath sounded somewhere ahead of him, and Elrohir looked up, trying to see who needed assistance. Several paces down the corridor, almost at the bend that led to temporary and rather deceptive safety, there was Isál, a look on his face that was almost as dark as his opponent's whom he was right now knocking off balance and into several more humans. For a moment, Elrohir thought that the captain had run into problems, but then he realised that just the opposite was the case: Isál was only one step away from escaping, and that was also the source of his unhappiness, or so it would seem.

As if he had sensed Elrohir's look, Isál's head came up, and he looked straight at his lord and friend, his blue eyes large and pleading in his face. Elrohir, however, had a lot of experience with looks of this particular kind – after Arwen and Estel nothing could impress him overly much in this regard – and he shook his head, keeping an eye on the three soldiers that were beginning to advance on his position.

"Go, Captain!" he once again repeated, staring at the other elf as fiercely as he could. "Get out of here! That is an order!"

Isál gritted his teeth and scowled at his superior as he swung his chains into the direction of an overly-adventurous guard. The man cursed and moved backwards, waiting for his chance to strike at the elf once more. The elven captain turned back quickly and looked at Elrohir, his eyes blazing in worry, fear or anger, or all three.

"Curses on you and your stubbornness, Elrohir Elrondion!" he called darkly. "Do not make me regret this!"

He didn't wait for Elrohir to answer and only turned around, once again swinging his chain around in a wide arc. The men scrambled to get out of the way, and a second later he was gone, three or four men chasing after him. The grin that spread over Elrohir's face at that did not last long, however. No matter how many guards ran after his escaping men, there were always more to take their places. And after five more minutes he had to admit to himself something he did not cherish at all: The humans, or rather their leader, were not as stupid as he had first thought.

In the beginning, they had been surprised by the elves' actions, since they hadn't been able to understand the command Elrohir had uttered, but they were beginning to adapt quickly. If his eyes did not deceive him, Isál and four of his warriors had escaped, most of them in the first minute or so. Now the men had begun to realise what their captives were doing, and in the past minutes none of his remaining four men – or Legolas, for that matter – had managed to break through. And if he wasn't very much mistaken, no more of his men _would _be able to break through either.

Elrohir gave the elven prince who was fighting a few yards away from him a look that could only be called arctic. In such situations, Legolas frequently claimed that he had been unable to understand certain commands because of the Rivendell Elves' "Noldorin accent", which was complete nonsense, of course. The Sindarin spoken in Legolas' home and in Imladris was basically the same, and a few different words and a slight accent wouldn't change anything. Be that as it may, he had the very bad feeling that Legolas would rather run himself through with his own sword … uhm, knife, than actually escape and leave him behind. The elven prince might think that he didn't know it, but he was rather sure that Elladan had spoken to Legolas before their departure, probably making him promise to look after Estel and him. It was a behaviour that was neither beyond him nor his dear twin brother.

And if there was one thing to be said about Legolas Thranduilion of Mirkwood, it was that he took such things incredibly serious.

The more honest part of Elrohir had just enough time to admit that he would have made the wood-elf promise the same when the three men he had been fending off for the past few minutes started another attack, apparently not content with the preliminary score, namely five to zero for him. Even though he knew that their chances of escape were virtually non-existent and their chances of survival slim, he would be damned if he gave up now. He had to teach these three a lesson, if nothing else.

Legolas was fighting with much the same problems, even though in his case only two soldiers were intent on killing or at least maiming him. Under normal circumstances, it would not have posed a problem of any kind; an elf against two humans was hardly fair, after all. Now, however, he had serious problems staying on his feet, and the dim light that filled the hallway seemed to go on and off at irregular intervals. It was annoying to say the least, and the part of him that was still capable of more or less reasonable thought told him insistently that he should end this and lie down; he was beginning to act like that insufferably stubborn and unreasonable _ dúnadan_, for Oromë's sake!

Even while Legolas was fighting off the two soldiers that were beginning to become overly bold – they were apparently sensing his increasing weakness like a pair of hounds – he kept scanning the merry chaos around him for any signs of Gasur. He had a score to settle with him, after all, and he would be damned if he allowed this … man … to slip through his fingers another time. He knew that he should have allowed Celylith to kill him all these months ago; it would have made everything a lot easier. It was something he had failed to do, and a mistake he was more than willing to correct.

He shook his head slightly – which might not have been the most intelligent thing to do, since the light promptly dimmed dramatically once more – and tried to get the world into sharper focus, something that came not a second too early. One of the men seemed to have sensed his temporary distraction and was trying to outflank him, ready to thrust his sword into his side, and Legolas reacted just in time. Aiming a quick slash at his other opponent's face, he turned to the side, only just managing to block the blow that would surely have incapacitatedhim.

The man cursed, scowling at the elven prince who had seen through his manoeuvre so quickly and effortlessly, but he wasn't given long to ponder his shortcomings. Legolas, now completely fed up with this particular state of affairs, moved to the side, forcing the man to move with him. Contrary to the elf, he hadn't been able to see what was directly behind him, and so he bumped into his companion who was right now trying to get closer to the two of them. The unexpected contact surprised and unbalanced him, and the soldier automatically glanced to the side, therefore taking his eyes off his opponent.

It was all the time Legolas needed. Mustering all his remaining strength and agility, he moved forward, suddenly appearing next to the thoroughly astonished man. The surprise on his face quickly made way to pain, though, as Legolas copied the manoeuvre the man had intended to employ and sank his knife into his side. The man went down with a barely bitten-off cry of pain, and Legolas grinned slightly, the sight giving him far more satisfaction than it rightly should have.

The second man, however, reacted more quickly than Legolas would have thought. The elf was still in the process of turning back around when the man was upon him, and Legolas was hard-pressed to block the blows that were raining down on him. A particularly forceful stroke he would almost have been unable to block threw him against the wall, his wounded left side making painful contact with the rough stone and almost robbing him of the ability to breathe or think. The light dimmed even more, and all the wood-elf could do was to lash out blindly at his opponent. He got lucky, though, and his blade made contact with something soft. The following cry and the warm, sticky fluid that suddenly covered his hand was enough to convince him that he had indeed hit the other man, and with a deep breath he tried to push himself off the wall and back onto his own two feet.

Whether or not he would have managed to do that was something he would never find out, for just when he had moved away from the wall, still trying to muster his remaining strength, a blow hit him from behind, just behind his right ear. Blinding white pain shot through his skull, seemingly setting the world aflame, and he stumbled forward with the force of the blow. His sight became hazy and almost unreal in its indistinctness, and even before rough, uncaring hands grasped him, twisted the knife out of his hands and pulled him backwards, there was only one thought on his mind: Gasur. Only the 'Fox' would attack someone from behind while his back was turned, coward that he was.

Still half-dazed, he was pulled against the body behind him, which was enough to wake him from his stupor. To be this close to the mad, twisted, sadistic captain was more than he could bear, more than any sane person would be able to bear, and the Silvan elf automatically tried to twist out of the man's grasp, adrenaline coursing through his body and lending his movements strength. He was making headway, too, before his body stilled completely when a knife was pressed against his throat, firmly enough to reopen the wound that was already there.

"Well, look at this," a soft voice whispered into his ear. The man was close enough so that his breath moved some strands of hair away from his pale cheek, something that sent a cold shiver down the elf's back. "You weren't thinking about leaving, were you, my little elf?"

"I am _not _your little elf," Legolas hissed back, anger so profound that it was almost rage rising inside of him. "If you have any honour left, you will let me go and face me like a man."

"Ah, but that would be stupid," Gasur retorted as he slowly moved forwards, forcing the elf to mirror his movements. Legolas could almost see the satisfied grin on his face, and could do nothing more than grit his teeth in impotent fury. "And I am not stupid, _elf_."

"No, you are insane," Legolas agreed coolly.

"Insanity is in the eye of the beholder," the man informed him smugly. "Now be a good little elf and don't move."

Pinned between Gasur's body and his knife, Legolas had indeed nowhere to go. He could only keep still, curse his own carelessness and Gasur's name and do nothing while the man raised his free hand to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. Everybody's head whipped around, elves and men alike looking for the source of the sudden noise, and when their eyes focussed on him Legolas very much wished to be dead. To be used by Gasur as a bargaining tool was more than his pride could bear.

For a few seconds, it was completely silent as everybody stared at the two figures standing close to the end of the corridor. Legolas could almost see how Gasur's grin widened even more, his contentment quite obviously fuelled by the situation in general and the fury that could easily be seen on the faces of the elves.

"So," Gasur finally said, looking straight at Elrohir who looked angry enough to be confused with Sauron when he was having a bad day, "what now, _elf_?"

The question if the 'Fox' was calling all of them "elf" because he was unable to remember their names flittered through Legolas' head even while he moved ever so slightly, testing how far he could go now that the man was preoccupied. Not very far, as it quickly turned out. The knife was pressed more firmly against his jugular vein, causing a small rivulet of blood to run down his throat, and he stilled instantly.

"Let him go," was all Elrohir said, his eyes fixed on Legolas' far-too-expressionless face. He actually managed to sound as if he possessed something with which he could back up his unvoiced threat, something that caused Gasur to give a bark of laughter.

"Now, why would I do that?" the dark-haired man asked rhetorically. "Do all of you think that I'm stupid?" Elrohir merely raised an eyebrow eloquently, but refrained from answering as the man tightened his grip on Legolas' left arm, his fingers digging cruelly into his bandaged wounds and pulling him even more firmly against his own body. "Order your men to put down their weapons, _elf_."

"Now, why would I do that?" Elrohir echoed the man's earlier words, grey eyes hard and cold in his face. There was a look on his face that reminded Legolas of Lord Elrond just before he lost his temper, and if Legolas hadn't hated Gasur so much, he would have pitied him. He didn't even want to know what Elrohir would do if he ever got his hands on Acalith's captain. "We have been doing quite well until now, I think."

"Oh, you have indeed," Gasur sneered. "But you forget something. I have a bargaining chip."

Legolas' eyes darkened at that, but he could do nothing more than wish Gasur into the deepest pits of Angband, the knife at his throat keeping him as immobile as not even iron bonds would have. Elrohir looked from his friend to Gasur, pretending to weigh his options. There was not much of a choice, that was something he knew very well. This man was as unstable and unpredictable as Eöl, and he had no doubts whatsoever that he would kill Legolas if he didn't meet his demands.

"What will happen if I do as you say?" he asked, his eyes not leaving the men around him and his fingers gripping his sword tightly.

"I will not cut his throat," Gasur grinned at him. Legolas twisted slightly, unable to stay still and obedient for so long, and the long knife dug deeper into the soft flesh of the elf's throat. Fresh red blood flowed from the cut, and the wood-elf quietened again, his expression more one of anger and loathing than of pain.

"I am getting impatient, _elf_," the man added, his left hand tangling in the prince's long blond hair to jerk his head back. He pressed the knife even more firmly against the fair-haired elf's throat, giving Legolas the impression that it was indeed already half-cut. "Tell them to stand down. Now."

"Elrohir…" Legolas began, but a new twist of the man's hand in his hair made him fall silent with a pained hiss.

"Be quiet, my friend," Elrohir said mildly before he turned to his men and gave them a quick look, reluctance on his face. "Do as he says."

The elven warriors obeyed, handing their weapons over to whatever man was standing closest to them, all the while shooting the humans dark glares. Elrohir waited until the last warrior had handed over his sword, and only then did he throw down his own weapon, sending it skidding over to Gasur. It came to a stop a few inches away from him and Legolas with a loud, clanking noise, and Elrohir thought inwardly that not only the 'Fox' could stage a little drama if he felt like it.

"There," he spat in a tone of voice that would have impressed even one of the higher-ranking officers of the Dark Lord. "Now let him go."

"Ah, but we are at a misunderstanding here," Gasur retorted lazily, but there was a dark, dangerous sparkle in his eyes that immediately set Elrohir's nerves on edge. "I never said anything about that, did I?"

Understanding began to dawn in the twin's eyes, but even as he was moving forward, fighting against the hands of the guards who had suddenly grasped him, he knew that he would be too late. With a grin on his face that left insane far behind, Gasur had removed the knife from the prince's throat, still holding him firmly with the left arm. Before the weakened elf could react or even knew what was going on, the captain had plunged the weapon into his unprotected abdomen.

Legolas was too shocked to react in any way, and the only sound that escaped him was a small, surprised gasp. Pain blossomed in his middle, pain so intense that it literally stole his breath away. There was a sound echoing in his ears that almost sounded like a scream, but he didn't possess the energy to try and figure out what it was, the blood rushing loudly in his ears and the agony in his stomach making it impossible for him to think.

Gasur bent forward slightly as he leaned around the tall elf to be able to see his face, sadistic glee contorting his ordinary features. Ignoring the dark-haired elf's words, who was both cursing him and pleading with him to leave his friend alone, the man closed his fingers more firmly around the handle of the knife, noting with detached interest that red blood was beginning to stain his fingers. A smile of pure anticipation was on his face when he grasped the hilt more tightly and _twisted_.

This time, the elven prince couldn't suppress a scream of pain, his body jerking and trying to pull away from the pain that was raging in its middle. By now Legolas was too weak, however, and shock had already begun to take too strong a hold of him, and so the elf's body slumped in Gasur's grasp after a few seconds. The only things that could be heard were Elrohir's pleading protests and the wood-elf's harsh breathing.

After several long moments and several more twists that elicited less and less of a response from the fair-haired elf, Gasur yanked the weapon out with a particularly cruel movement, grinning openly at the large red stain that was immediately beginning to spread on the prince's tunic. Elrohir could only watch as the man let go of his friend, for a second holding him up only by his long hair, before he released his grasp, allowing the blond elf to drop to the floor. Legolas fell heavily, unable to break his fall in any way, and automatically tried to roll onto his side, his hands feebly reaching down to cover the wound. He did not get very far, however, his weakened body already beginning to decide that enough was enough, and so the elf's body stilled after a few seconds, only his chest rising and falling with every harsh breath he took.

"What?" Gasur asked, apparently greatly surprised. He looked from the fair-haired elf's body to Elrohir, who completely ignored him, having eyes only for Legolas. "I only said that I wouldn't cut his throat."

It took Elrohir a few seconds to force himself to look away from his friend's body, shock and fear and anger almost paralysing him. Only when he saw the wood-elf's chest rise as Legolas laboured to draw breath into his lungs did he look up, his grey eyes almost black with anger.  
"For this and so many other things you will die by my hands," he said, calmly and very evenly. "And if not by my own, then by those of one of my kind."

"That's what they all say," Gasur shrugged, apparently rather unimpressed. "And I'm still alive, am I not?"

If one looked closely, though, one could see the quickly hidden sparkle of uncertainty appear in the captain's lifeless eyes. He gave Legolas a satisfied look and kicked him in the thigh for good measure before he turned his attention to Elrohir, giving the dark-haired elf a mocking look. The mere fact that he did that refuted his earlier statement: He had to be stupid, even very stupid, to look at a son of Elrond like that when he was in such a state of mind. The twin had to be held back by three men who were having problems containing him, and there was a look of murder in his eyes. Even a Barrow-wight would have given him only one look and floated around the next best corner as fast as possible.

"So," the man began, slowly beginning to saunter over the irate twin, "what am I going to do with you and your men?"

Before Elrohir could tell him the very colourful epithet that was on his mind, the answer to the man's question was provided by a voice that sounded annoyed and mildly fearful at the same time.  
"You will take them outside to be executed, Gasur. Those are your orders."

The dark-haired captain turned around with the speed of a startled serpent, coming face to face with Reod who had soundlessly rounded the corner and entered the corridor. It was clear that Gasur would have liked almost anything better than having to deal with his follow captain, and so he didn't even try to smile or show any other sign of cordiality.

"Reod," he acknowledged the chestnut-haired man's presence, giving him the curtest nod imaginable. "I and my men recaptured the elves."

"So I can see," Reod nodded as well, trying to hide the unease he always felt in the other man's presence behind a cool façade. The only problem was that he didn't really think he was fooling anyone. He gave Legolas' crumpled figure a long look, raising his eyebrows. "What happened here?"

"He tried to kill me," Gasur shrugged nonchalantly, even managing to exude an air of regret, as if he was sorry that he had so badly damaged one of his lady's prisoners. "I was faster."

Even if the dark-haired elf who was being restrained by three guards hadn't begun to protest before he was silenced by a well-aimed jab into his side, Reod wouldn't have believed a single word of that. He knew how fast elves were, Gods, he had seen how fast they were, and he simply knew that whatever it was that had happened here, it hadn't been a fair fight.

"I … see," he finally answered, deciding that he would not challenge Gasur about this. He didn't even care, after all, not about the elves and not about anyone else allied with them, and he certainly would not chance Gasur's wrath over one of them. "I doubled the guards all over the compound. We will find the ones that managed to escape; it is only a matter of time."

"Good," Gasur nodded, clearly not really listening.

"It is indeed," Reod answered. If he hadn't been so afraid of the younger man, he would have felt decidedly annoyed. But even though Gasur's position was not as untouchable and stable as it had been before the whole business of the escaped elf and ranger, it was still a lot more untouchable than his, Reod's. "Can your men handle them on the way outside or should I send for reinforcements?"

That was enough to wake the other man from his momentary distraction – he had been eyeing the fair-haired elf's motionless figure with the intense, greedy eyes of a predator that had tasted blood – and he turned fully to look at Reod.  
"What?"

"Those are Lady Acalith's orders," Reod repeated, taking care to speak slowly and keep his voice and face neutral and as inoffensive as possible. "She is not pleased about this entire fiasco. A public execution would have been more effective, but she is not willing to wait till the morrow; the elves have proven that they are too dangerous for that. All of them are to be brought into the courtyard and executed."

"Now?" Gasur asked unwillingly, sounding very much like a spoilt child that wouldn't or couldn't understand why it would not get the present for which it had been wanting for months.

"Now," Reod confirmed. He let his gaze wander over the five elves that were being restrained by the remaining guards, averting his gaze at their hate-filled glares, and finally looked at the ground, surveying the many motionless humans until his eyes came to rest on the equally motionless blond elf a few feet away from him.

"What about him?" he added, taking a step closer. Judging by the pallor of his face and the slowly spreading red stain on his shirt, it as clear that he would not get up any time soon, if ever again at all. "He looks as if he's already half on his way to the next world. I don't think we'll have to bother the henchman with him."

"Oh no," Gasur shook his head as he returned to the elven prince's side as well. Crouching down next to him, he once again grasped him by his long, unbound hair, jerking his head up. Legolas couldn't suppress a small moan of pain even though he did not react in any other way, and the captain grinned openly. "See? There is still some life left in him. If I have learned anything at all about this accursed race, it is that they are tough. This one is coming with us. He can watch his friends die one by one while he is slowly bleeding to death. A fitting end, wouldn't you say?"

"If you say so," Reod retorted neutrally. He straightened up from his half-crouch and nodded at the soldiers. "Get them outside."

The guards didn't need any further motivation and immediately began to drag the elves forward, past the two officers and down the corridor. None of them went willingly, but in the end the number and combined strength of the men triumphed over their steadfast determination. Elrohir, however, was more successful than most, and in the end it took five soldiers to manhandle him down the corridor. When he was being dragged past Legolas, two of the men were about to pick the nearly unconscious elf up, roughly trying to pull him to his feet, and he renewed his effort to shake off the humans' hands.

"Stop it!" he called, seriously contemplating biting one of his keepers in the hand. "Stop it, for Eru's sake! You will kill him if you move him like that! Let me carry him!"

The guards actually stopped for a moment, apparently astonished by his words.  
"Who cares?" one of them asked finally. "In ten minutes, you'll all be dead anyway."

Elrohir gave him a look that would have frozen molten lava in mid-flow, and the man only shook his head, muttered something about insane elves and nodded at his companions. They all began to drag him down the hallway once again, rather unsuccessfully so one might add, until a voice behind them could be heard, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

"By the Gods, let him carry him if he wants it so badly! At least then he'll go quietly!"

The men obeyed Reod's command almost immediately, apparently more than glad about the chance to get rid of this troublesome creature. Elrohir shook off the soldiers' hands and rushed over to his fallen friend's side, shouldering aside the two humans who had been about to pick the other elf up. The two of them exchanged a disgusted look – just who would ever understand how elven minds worked? – but could not have cared less. If this one wanted to carry his companion and get blood all over his clothes, he was welcome to it.

If Elrohir had known their thoughts, he would probably have seriously contemplated trying to strangle them. He was, however, completely focussed on his friend's still body. He gently tried to roll the other elf onto his back, but Legolas resisted his attempts with what had to be most of the strength he still possessed. The twin's worry went up another notch when he touched his friend's cold, clammy skin and saw how pale he actually was, and he had the very disconcerting feeling that he only reason why he wasn't already on his way to a full-blown panic was that he couldn't actually see the wound. The blond elf's hands were clamped over it so tightly that the knuckles showed through the fair, blood-stained skin.

"Legolas," he murmured softly, applying as much force as he dared as he tried once again to turn the other elf onto his back. "I need to see the wound." At the sound of his voice the younger elf seemed to relax minutely, and Elrohir finally managed to turn him over onto his back. "Shhh, my friend, be calm. I have to see the wound."

Legolas' eyes were still firmly closed, the muscles in his jaw bunching as he tried to suppress the sounds of pain that were on the tip of his tongue.  
"El'hir … hurts…" was all he actually managed to say, his voice so soft that only the other elf would be able to hear him.

Elrohir gritted his teeth as well as he quickly reached out to pry one of the other elf's hands away from the wound. He doubted that he had much time; neither Gasur nor the other officer whose name he did not know seemed to possess much patience.

"I know, _mellon nín_," he retorted softly, speaking in his most soothing tone of voice. "Let me have a look, stubborn wood-elf. Everything will be well, I promise, let me see…"

He fell silent, grasped one of Legolas' blood-slicked hands and finally managed to pull it away from the wound, an action that was followed by a soft moan from the prince. Elrohir had only the time to take one look before Legolas' jerked his hand away from his and covered the wound again, only intend on alleviating the pain in any way possible, but it was enough. Even through the blood that flowed copiously from the wound, Elrohir saw that it was a deep one. The knife must have been imbedded almost to the hilt, and the fact that that son of an orc had twisted the weapon had resulted in a large, gaping hole in Legolas' abdomen. In any other place, it would have been a bad wound, even for an elf, but in the stomach…

Elrohir trailed off, his mind shying away from that thought. Legolas needed warmth and bandages. He needed clean sheets, he needed medicines, he needed healing herbs. He needed a whole troop of healers who knew very well what they were doing. He needed Elrond.

The twin would almost have laughed aloud. He might as well wish for all the men here to drop dead; the chances of it happening were actually about the same.

A kick to his back that would almost have thrown him over brought him back to the present, and Elrohir's head whipped around, stormy-grey eyes fixing on Gasur's grinning face. Not for the first time today Elrohir had to fight the very strong urge to wrap his hands around the man's throat, and sent a fervent prayer to the One that he would be there when someone wiped that stupid, self-satisfied grin off the captain's face.

"Now, elf, you really aren't listening very well," the man stated lazily. "My esteemed colleague told you to carry him, not tend to him."

"Are you really this stupid or are you just an incredibly good actor?" Elrohir asked, having long ago passed the point where he actually cared if his words would have any consequences for him or not. "I told you that he will die if he is moved without care!"

"And _we_ told you, _elf_," Gasur retorted, his eyes darkening once again in anger, "that no one cares. You'll all be dead in less than half an hour, a half-hour I am planning to enjoy, by the way. Now," he went on, casually resting his still unsheathed, bloody knife against the twin's throat, "you have two seconds to pick him up and carry him upstairs. If you don't, these nice gentlemen," he nodded at the two guards who were standing behind him, looking rather lost, "will drag him up, by his hair if they have to. Do you understand me, _elf_?"

Elrohir had to suppress a shiver, the feeling of the knife that was stained with his friend's lifeblood almost unbearable. Knowing that he was out of options, he only gave Gasur a scathing glare before he turned back around and slowly and carefully slid his arms under the fair-haired elf's body. Trying to ignore the soft moans of pain the other elf couldn't hold back, Elrohir stood up, cradling his barely conscious friend in his arms. No matter how gentle he was, though, the sudden movement still hurt the Silvan elf, and he uttered a small cry of pain before he could bite it back.

Elrohir raised his eyes from his friend's pale, pain-filled face and gave Gasur a cold look, almost daring him to say anything. Most people would have taken a look at the dark, simply dangerous sparkle in his eyes and would have abandoned even the most fleeting thought of opening their mouths, but the man once again proved that he was, in fact, stupid. Obviously determined not to lose face in front of his men, he grinned at the dark-haired elf, giving him a small shove into the direction of the stairs.

"I know, I know, I will die for this. Don't bother repeating yourself, _elf_."

"Yes, you will," Elrohir nodded very calmly, clearly only stating a fact. "But know this: If he dies, I will make you suffer before I allow your worthless soul to travel to the next world. I will find you, no matter where you hide, and make you pay for every cut, for every bruise, for every drop of blood he and the ranger have shed. No one and nothing will be able to protect you, and the last thing you will see will be the smile on my face as I watch you die!"

The twin stared at the man in front of him, looking regal and proud and utterly uncompromising. Any elf who had seen him would have likened him to one of the Noldorin princes of old, wrathful warriors of terrible might, and even Gasur who knew nothing o the Firstborn felt a strange, tentative trembling inside of him that he could not identify.

"The blood of our people flows strongly in my father's veins," Elrohir went on, his cool voice belying the fire that was burning in his eyes, "and I am his son. I never take frivolous vows nor break my promises."

Without giving the three men another look, he turned around, walking past the soldiers that were waiting to escort him to the courtyard and to his death. As soon as he had turned his back, he seemed to forget all about the men's presence, and the guards could the soft, almost inaudible words of comfort that he murmured to his companion whom he was carrying.

Gasur stood as still as a stature for several long moments, not moving a muscle while he looked after the dark-haired elf. A few seconds later he clearly shook himself and glared at the soldiers who were still waiting behind him, barking at them to get moving. The two men hurried to comply, clearly glad to escape the presence of their unloved, twisted superior. In the end, there was only Gasur left, standing amidst the bodies of the fallen human guards without even seeming to notice it.

The dark-haired captain finally began to move and slowly walked down the corridor, and had there been anyone there to observe him, they would have seen the first signs of doubt in his eyes, and something that might have been called fear. 

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**_Pelio! Pelio a doltho! - Spread (out)! Spread (out) and hide!  
Leitho i-vellon adar nín; drego e dôr hen - Free my father's friend; escape from this place!  
Mabo i-vuindor nín a rado na bar vín - Take my brother and make your way (back) to our home!  
Avo dhartho anim - Do not wait for me!  
Bado, si - Go, now!  
dúnadan - 'Man of the West', ranger  
mellon nín - my friend _

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•points into Jack's direction• She supported me! It's her fault - and my alter ego's, of course! Take it up with them! •evil grin• Ah well, I'm sorry. My alter ego couldn't wait for the evil fate she's planned for Aragorn ... oops. Shouldn't have said that, should I? •even more evil grin• You'll have to wait a bit for that, I'm afraid. So, the next chapter'll be here soon, where we find out if Aragorn's Plan C? ... D? works as advertised, whether Elrohir has to fulfil his oath and what Elrond and Glorfindel are up to. Also: A bit bloodshed, mayhem and general pain. Nice, eh? •g• As always, reviews help me to focus on my writing and therefore help to get the chapters out faster. Honest. So: Review? Please?**

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**Additional A/N:**

**As always, I will be sending the review responses via email. We wouldn't want FF-net to get mad, now would we? •gives web site arctic glare• I would like to apologise to**

**MaddyPaddy, Iverson, Grumpy, EVIL MANIAC,**

**for not including them in said email. You guys didn't include your email addresses - sorry! So, to everyone: If you want to get review responses, log in before you review or let me know how I can reach you if you prefer to review anonymously! Thanks a lot - I really hate not being able to respond to you!**


	34. Man's Glory

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**•runs into post• I know, I know, I know, you want to kill me. You have good reason to, and usually I would actually think about letting you (I have spent the last two weeks feeling guilty), but I really don't have any time at all. I am going home for Christmas tomorrow, have about a thousand things to do and the bloody tourists that crowd the city don't really help, either. •growls at them• I know, I know, that's stupid since we're all tourists at one point or other, but when you try to shove your way into stores to buy some last-minute Christmas presents, they are VERY annoying. And Madrid has tons of them.**

**The reason for my late post is the fact that I am moving into another room (just within or shared flat, though), the fact that our internet has ceased working yet again and that little trip to the South I went on. If any of you should ever think about visiting Andalucía, do yourself a favour and stay in Seville a few days. It's one of the simply most breathtakingly beautiful cities I have ever seen. •shakes head, still stunned• Gosh, amazing, really.**

**Okay, I will have to cut this short, which is probably better anyway. I have lots to do, and I'm sure you do, too. Sometimes I really wonder why we put up with all the hassle... •shakes head• Oh, for those who are interested in such things: The title of this chapter was inspired by a quote from William Butler Yeats, _"Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends." _•shrugs• I thought it very fitting. I have also finally decided that "my" Glorfindel is a Vanya, with some Noldorin blood. I figured he had to be at least partly Noldorin, since he was the Chief of the House of the Golden Flower in Gondolin, but with that kind of hair colour you definitely are more than a little Vanyarin, too. •shrugs again• That's my version, so feel free to criticise me.**

**I wish all of you a very Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays! Here's the next bit, which is so long that it should probably keep you busy till well into the next year. I have stopped counting the pages; it's way too depressing. So, what do we have? Elrond in a pensive mood, Isál who is getting pleasantly surprised (I know you guys have been waiting for that particular scene for ages!), Elrond and Glorfindel having a little chat/argument/heart-to-heart talk, Aragorn getting into yet more trouble, the same goes for Elrohir, Legolas is being very heroic (or is that stupid?) once more, a bit more of our resident psychopath, Glorfindel in a seriously annoyed mood, some insights from someone else and ... wait a second, yup, a special present for all of you! It starts with C and ends with Y! Whatever could that be? •evil grin•**

**Have lots of fun and review, please! **

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Chapter 34

Long, white fingers wrapped themselves around the ornately carved pommel of a sword, flexing with an open impatience that their owner neither appreciated nor wanted to show right now. It was as much a matter of presenting a calm image as it was about deceiving himself; he needed to be calm, needed to be in control, needed to keep a level head.

What he did _not _need was give in to his best friend's unvoiced wish and rush through this town like a dim-witted maniac and hope to find those they sought in such a manner. He was honest enough to admit that, in his current state of mind, the idea sounded rather attractive, but, by the Valar, he would _not _do it. He had committed enough mistakes in the past few days; he would not add another one of truly impressive proportions.

Elrond scowled at Thalar's back, not for the first time fervently wishing that the commander's warrior would return soon – how long could it take you to scout a deserted street, after all? After only a few heartbeats he realised how stupid that thought actually was; he had been in more than a few wars himself and knew perfectly well that the good scouts were those who returned alive and undetected, not those who returned quickly. And besides, this whole train of thought was highly unbecoming an elf lord of his status. It would take as long as it took, and that was it.

Under normal circumstances, the dark-haired elf lord would have accepted that and would have turned his mind to different matters, but today he simply could not. There was too much at stake, too many lives that were too dear to him, and having to wait patiently was the one thing he could not do today. He would rather fight his way through a battalion of orcs, or confront a Nazgûl in a bad mood. Or maybe even two.

A movement to his left caught his attention and Elrond turned his head, but it turned out to be only Elladan, who was inching closer to him, as if expecting him to do something both unwise and ill-advised. The half-elven lord took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a second and forcefully calmed himself. His son knew him better than anyone else here with the exception of Glorfindel, but that didn't mean that only he had noticed his unease. He had put his men in a situation that was dangerous enough already; what they did not need was to have to wonder whether or not their lord was beginning to go mad.

And that was unfortunately the truth, Elrond admitted calmly to himself. After they had found Meneldir, Dólion and the others, they had told them about everything that had happened, which had indeed taken only a little longer than maybe five minutes – but only because Tibron had already informed them about a fair share of this highly fascinating disaster. While the two commanders had been unable to tell them anything about the status or condition of Elrohir's troop other than the vague threats Hurag's men had uttered now and again, they had been very capable of describing to them in minute detail what Estel had told them about Erestor's condition.

Elrond swallowed reflexively, the faint smile with which he had wanted to reassure his son dying on his face. He knew that Meneldir – who had, as the senior commander, spoken for most of the time – was not an elf prone to exaggeration. The fair-haired commander had spoken for several minutes, his calm, businesslike tone of voice being belied by the angry sparkle in his eyes, and nothing he had said had sounded disproportionate or overstated in any way. His words had caused Elrond's blood to run cold and the icy fury in his heart even to increase, and his fear for his friend's welfare had reached new, unheard-of levels.

And, he told himself somewhat wryly, if Meneldir's words had this effect on him, then just what had they done to Glorfindel?

Not that his golden-haired friend would ever tell him; Valar forbid, no, that would be far too easy. Glorfindel had simply stared at the two commanders, showing nothing but professional efficiency as he questioned them about Donrag's defences and what Legolas' and Elrohir's plan had been, and then, in the end when it was clear that neither of the two could add anything more, he had walked away. Just like that, without saying anything to anyone. He had appeared shortly before they had left the mines behind, appearing out of the darkness on his great white steed like some sort of ghostly apparition, and had taken command of the warriors as if nothing had happened.

To those who knew him, however – and Elrond knew him very well indeed – it was very clear that the fair-haired elf lord was holding onto his control and calm with every single shred of patience and strength he possessed. There was a light shining in his eyes that he did not even try to disguise, a light that very clearly spelled death and doom for any human soldier they would encounter, and Elrond could not find it in himself to chide him for it. And even if he had wanted to do so, he reasoned, it was doubtful that he would have said anything. He was, after all, rather fond of the place his head was occupying right now, and if he had read that particular light correctly, then it was the same that must have been visible in Glorfindel's eyes when the golden-haired elf had faced the balrog all these ages ago.

And everybody knew how well _that _encounter had turned out for everybody involved.

So he had kept his peace and remained silent while they had made their way here, where the source of all their problems lay. He still had a hard time coping with the fact that the Lord of Donrag was dead and his successor – his wife! – was responsible for all this. Why the woman was doing what she was doing remained a mystery to his mind, but he had to admit that he only very vaguely cared about her motives. He had stopped concerning himself with them a long time ago, if he ever had done so in the first place, that was. No one attacked his men without having to answer for it, no one, for no reason imaginable. The urge to protect his people had been burned into his mind by too many battles, too much destruction and too much death, and he did not intend to change his attitude even in the slightest.

The Lady of Donrag had much to answer for, indeed.

And while he might have been highly suspicious as to their chances of making anybody answer for anything – not to mention saving his younger twin son and his men – he was not quite that negative anymore. They had, after all, not only managed to reach Donrag, they had also managed to find the gate Legolas had described to Meneldir and his men – without being detected, that was. After that, Ingvaer had opened the locks that had apparently been attached to the small gate only recently (probably after Elrohir's capture, a small voice in his head commented which he steadfastly ignored), all the while mumbling to himself about how Annorathil, his uncle, would have opened them far more quickly and asking no one in particular how stupid the men here thought them to be.

Elrond did not saw it fit to tell the young elf that they apparently thought them to be positively idiotic, nor did he tell him that they had a reason for that assumption. His and every other elf's actions until now hadn't been what one could call brilliant, after all, and when all this was over he would have to sit down with all his sons, visiting princes and/or his seneschal and have a serious talk about the importance of controlling one's feelings and the unbelievable small chances of success when pitting oneself against such incredible odds.

He might have done the same, but that was something he would not admit to anyone, least of all his sons, Prince Legolas or Glorfindel. It would only serve to encourage them.

Even though everything had indeed been going well, he had ordered everyone to stay right where they were after they had entered the city. In his experience, everything that looked too good to be true usually was, too, and he had no desire to lead his men into a trap, no matter how insistently his feelings told him to rush to Acalith's house and find his son. They would help no one if they were dead or were captured as well, which was why he had told Glorfindel to hide his men in the warehouses close to the gates and send out scouts. The city looked empty and lifeless enough, but Elrond could still remember enough villages and enemy camps that had looked just the same just before utter, unbridled chaos had broken loose.

Glorfindel had obeyed his order, but Elrond didn't have to use a single sliver of empathic ability to know that the older elf was _not _happy about it. This time, however, it had been the golden-haired elf who had merely inclined his head and kept his silence while he hurried off to do his lord's bidding, much to Elrond's relief. He didn't want to fight with his best friend, but knew well enough that it would come to it, sooner or later. Glorfindel served him and his house faithfully and had done so for uncounted ages, but that didn't mean that he didn't possess an own opinion or was in any way shy about expressing it. And right now his opinion quite clearly involved rushing to Acalith's house and killing every single human they encountered on the way, in a bloody and painful way if somehow possible.

Elrond still wasn't completely certain what he thought about that idea.

What Elladan thought about the entire thing had been painfully obvious, though. The older twin had looked at him askance, as if he had told him to walk up to the Dark Tower and publicly declare Estel's true identity. Only deep-instilled respect and obedience made him hold his tongue, but the younger elf didn't have to tell him what he thought about that order. Elrond could still remember the bond he'd had with Elros before his brother's death had torn it asunder, and knew that Elladan's urge to reach his twin's side would be almost unbearable by now. When he had asked him how Elrohir was faring, the older twin had merely looked at him, grey eyes almost black with worry and his lips pressed tightly together into a thin, bloodless line. All Elladan had been able to say was that his brother was still alive and that he was relatively unharmed, but judging by his oldest son's behaviour and appearance, there was more to it that he either could not put into words or did not care to.

Elladan's unease and open worry that almost bordered on panic was enough to rob him of his composure as well, and he had to use all his control to keep up an at least somewhat calm façade. He had always trusted his sons' instincts, and when Elladan looked like this, there was something very wrong indeed.

Another thing that was tearing at his patience and control was young Celylith, Prince Legolas' childhood friend. He didn't even know why he had allowed him to come, but he had the faint suspicion that the young elf had used a moment of distraction before their departure (and the Valar knew that there had been many!) to attain his permission. Wood-elves were sneaky like that. The fact that the silver-haired elf was the son of Celythramir, King Thranduil's military advisor, would have helped as well. Elrond had found himself in more than one argument with him over the years, and while he might not always see eye to eye with him, he had to admit that he was intelligent, crafty and very capable.

Fact was, though, that Celylith was here, and another fact was that he was almost as worried as Elladan. If the situation hadn't been so dire, it would have been almost funny to watch him pace on the spot (something that was not nearly as easy as it sounded), but things being as they were at the moment, Elrond was anything but amused. He could understand the young elf's worry – if anyone knew how much trouble Legolas could get into, it was him – but it was grating on what was left of his patience. And no, it wasn't much to begin with.

Another thing that confused if not openly worried him was the sneaking suspicion that they were being followed by a bat. He had never before heard of bats being used as spies, not even by the Enemy – they were, after all, nocturnal and therefore only partly useful in such a regard – but it very much looked like it. He had seen the small black creature half a dozen times, and by now he was suspecting that he was either going insane or someone in Donrag or Aberon had found a way to use bats as messenger-spies.

The elf lord's musings were interrupted by the arrival of the last scout, who appeared out of the darkness that lay over the street as soundlessly as a wraith. After a short, hushed conversation with Glorfindel and Thalar, now the only one of Captain Elvynd's commanders who was still alive (who along with the captain's surviving men could not have been dissuaded from joining their troop), the elf disappeared again, hurrying up the street and out of sight. Glorfindel said a few more words to the younger elf, and Thalar nodded his head obediently and hurried off, undoubtedly to gather his men. A moment later Glorfindel had reached his side, his face calm and emotionless, but his blue eyes twinkling in what could only be called anticipation.

"The street is clear, my lord," the golden-haired elf lord reported in a soft voice. "We may proceed up to the mansion. The scouts have spread out again and will warn us in time should anyone approach."

"Very well," Elrond nodded. He looked at his son and Celylith, hoping against hope that they would be impressed by one of his darker _looks_. "Be careful, you two. Don't do anything – and I repeat, _anything _– that might cause someone to notice us. Is that understood?"

The two younger elves nodded readily, but Elrond had the very strong feeling that they would have agreed to anything, including scouting missions to Forodwaith, if it meant they would be allowed to go on. With an inward sigh and another quick look over his shoulder – was that small, fluttering shadow that bat _again_? – Elrond straightened his shoulders, unconsciously made sure that his long sword was still attached to his belt, and strode forward.

It actually took them less time than he would have thought to reach the house – or rather the stronghold – of the widow of the Lord of Donrag. He could not see much of it except the imposing, high walls that encircled it, and he had to exchange only one look with Glorfindel to know that they would never get in through the front gates, at least not without suffering heavy losses. The gates were too well-guarded and easily defendable; even taking the superior skill and speed of his men into account, the humans would be able to hold their own against any attack they could launch for quite a long amount of time. Whoever had constructed the defences of this mansion, he had known what he was doing.

Seeing understanding and consent mirrored in his best friend's eyes, Elrond gave him a curt nod, and a few moments later they were moving again, along the dark, forbidding wall. They were using the shadows that the houses next to them cast, and their movements were too quick and too skilled to be noticed by mortal eyes. They reached a smaller gate, and another and another, but strangely enough all of them were well-guarded, almost as heavily as the main gate. A part of him was wondering about this and had already come up with several explanations (none of them overly positive ones from his point of view), when one of the scouts that had taken point suddenly raised a hand, causing all of them to freeze on the spot.

Elrond crossed what little distance lay between him and the warrior, closely followed by Glorfindel, Elladan and Celylith, and finally could see what had caused the elf to raise the alarm: There was yet another gate in the wall, barely visible in the darkness that lay heavily over this section of the ramparts. The door looked old and unused, but there was no lock visible and it looked too strong for them to force it open easily and without drawing the attention of the guards that would be close.

The elf lord was about to open his mouth and ask the warrior what he had though to be so remarkable about this particular gate – in an appropriately incredulous, long-suffering tone of voice, of course – when his ears detected a faint sound that he couldn't place immediately. Elrond unconsciously cocked his head slightly to the side, a gesture that was mirrored by Elladan and the two fair-haired elves that were standing next to him. The half-elf frowned openly, trying to identify the faint noise he's heard. It had sounded somewhat muffled, yet metallic, almost as if … as if…

As if someone wearing armour or maybe only carrying a weapon had sunken to the ground, Elrond decided a second later, feeling very calm all of the sudden. All the possible meanings of this shot through his head with incredible speed, but while he was still thinking about it, other sounds could be heard; the scratching of metal against metal, a muffled grunt, and then finally silence.

It lasted only for a second, though, because then voices could be heard, speaking to each other in low tones. Only after he had given some of his men the order to take up position left and right of the gate in question, Elrond realised that the voices were conversing in Sindarin, and that he knew at least one of them rather well. Surprise went through him like the blade of a sword, quickly followed by relief. At least some of his men were still alive, thank the Valar.

"Well-aimed, Captain," a voice remarked weakly, tinged by either exhaustion or pain.

"Thank you," the voice that Elrond knew answered, sounding rather preoccupied. A rather loud, screeching sound could be heard, and the door next to Elrond's head trembled slightly on its hinges. Someone had just lifted a bar from the inside, the elf lord realised. "Come now, young one. We need to get you out of here, before our smelly friends awaken. I may despise our lord's orders, but I will follow them."

"They … will not awaken," the other voice commented thoughtfully, suppressing a cough that Elrond's healing expertise immediately placed in the 'dangerous' category. "You … you broke their necks, sir."

"I did?" the other elf asked, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "That rock must have been harder than I thought."

"Or … their necks more … b-brittle."

"Very well possible, too," the other voice agreed, still sounding completely unrepentant. "Now be quiet and lean on me, _pen-neth_. We need to go, before someone figures out where we went."

The other elf mumbled something under his breath that not even Elrond's keen ears could decipher, and only a second later the door next to him opened the tiniest bit. The elf who was opening it couldn't have given the outside world more than the most fleeting of glances before he apparently came to the conclusion that anything or anyone that waited for him outside just had to be better than what was inside, and he pushed the door open with his right hand. Elrond was not surprised about the fact that the hand in question was clutching a knife of human make, nor was he surprised to see that the elf it belonged to was indeed who he had suspected him to be. Now it didn't surprise him either that he had spoken about the humans' deaths with such a definite lack of interest or regret.

Giving the warriors a quick sign to lower their weapons, Elrond stepped away from the wall, unable to hide a small smile of relief when he looked upon his captain, who kept another elf upright with his left arm and what looked like fair share of willpower.  
"_Mae govannen, Isál_."

If there was a way to jump into the air while steadying an obviously wounded companion, Isál had found it. His hand tightened on his knife and he whirled around, prepared to defend his warrior and himself as well as possible, before the fact that Elrond had spoken Elvish seemed to register in his mind. He relaxed slightly, almost against his will, only to tense up again as his eyes came to rest on his lord who had appeared out of thin air, garbed in grey and dark cloth like all of Rivendell's captains usually were. The dark-haired captain's eyes widened considerably, and were in the very distinct danger of coming loose and dropping to the ground when he saw that not only his lord, but also his son, Lord Celylith and Lord Glorfindel were standing in front of him, accompanied by what had to be more or less two companies of Imladris' finest warriors.

"My Lord Elrond…?" he asked tentatively, as if he was expecting the older elf to disappear in a cloud of smoke and maniacal laughter. "What … how …?"

"It is a long story, Captain," Elrond assured the speechless elf. "Suffice to say that we are here. Before you ask: Your commanders and their men are fine. We found them unharmed; it was they who led us here."

"Good," Isál commented automatically, but the confusion in his eyes did not diminish. "But … how did you know … Lord Erestor! He is alive, my lord!"

"Yes," Elrond nodded patiently. "That is why we are here." He turned his attention to the warrior Isál was keeping upright, scanning his trembling form quickly. The elf was either in too much pain or too close to unconsciousness to acknowledge their presence in any way. He did not have to look long either; there was a deep, long stab wound in his side that was bleeding profusely. "What happened to your warrior, Captain?"

"A spear wound, my lord," Isál answered curtly, almost numbly allowing two other warriors to take the wounded elf from him. "We had already reached the gardens when we were surprised by three guards; they were about to relieve those who held watch at this gate. One of them struck him thusly before I could … neutralise him."

Elrond could very well imagine what "neutralise" really meant, and only nodded his head curtly. He found that he didn't really care whether or not Isál had killed the guards; even his patience and forgiveness had limits, and they had just been reached.

"I see," he nodded at the younger elf, and added when he saw his concerned glance that followed the injured elf while he was being carried into the direction of the dark houses, "They will take him to one of the healers. They will take care of him and find a safe place for him until all this is over."

Isál inclined his head obediently and he looked back at Elrond with large eyes, looking impossibly like an elfling who was trying not to take an adult by the sleeve and drag him off somewhere.

"Your son and the others are in trouble, my lord," he told Elrond urgently. Elladan ground his teeth and grumbled something under his breath, while Celylith merely rolled his eyes in a mixture of anger, worry and mild annoyance. "We were captured by this mad captain and his men and were put into a room in the cellars. Thanks to Annorathil we escaped, though, but when we reached Lord Erestor's cell – which was empty, by the way – we were…"

"Don't tell me," Elladan interrupted the younger elf darkly. "You were captured _again_."

Isál didn't even bother confirming that, so obvious was the answer.

"Your son ordered us to escape on our own, my lord, when it became clear that we would not be able to break through together," the captain went on, looking at Elrond and Glorfindel pleadingly. "Manwë Súlimo be my witness, I did not want to, but I had to obey his command. And," he added hesitantly, "I do not think that more than maybe four or five of us escaped. I saw Annorathil break through the guards' lines as well as him," he nodded into the direction into which the injured warrior had been taken, "and another, but it can't have been much more. I doubt that Lord Elrohir escaped – or Prince Legolas, for that matter. Gasur – the mad captain," he elaborated quickly, "is insane, but not stupid."

This time it was Celylith who muttered a rather interesting curse under his breath, something involving Legolas, the king and an age spent in Mirkwood's dungeons. Elrond hardly noticed it, far too busy to utter a similar curse right now (only that it involved Elrohir, Lórien and a very high _talan_), but then he nodded, calm composure on his face.

"Very well, Captain. Where would they have taken them?"

"I do not know, my lord," Isál admitted, gesturing one of the elven warriors that he wished to be equipped with a weapon – any kind of weapon. "But when we reached this part of the gardens, I heard a commotion somewhere to the left, in the direction of the main courtyard." He shrugged. "It's as good a guess as any."

"Why the courtyard?" That was Glorfindel, speaking for the first time.

Isál turned to him, looking a little bit scared, something that was not all that surprising. Elrond sometimes thought that his fair-haired friend wasn't even aware of it, but he could look very, very dangerous when he was displeased. By now Glorfindel had left the state of being 'displeased' far behind, that much was certain.

"Oh," Isál began ineloquently, nodding his thanks at the warrior who had rather reluctantly handed over his own sword to his superior. "Forgive me, sir. They wanted to execute us tomorrow morning."

"Again?" Elladan asked, annoyed. "What has that fool done now? Is he walking around with a sign that says 'Execute me at your earliest convenience'?"

Isál only shrugged, apparently unwilling to dismiss that possibility outright, and Elladan closed his mouth again, prompted by his father's _look_. Elrond looked at him a second longer to make sure before he returned his attention to the dark-haired captain in front of him. Isál was shifting his weight from foot to foot, and his bruised forehead and the long cut on his right arm only served to underline the impatience that was obviously dominating his thoughts.

"Are you able to lead us there, Captain?" he asked, knowing without doubt what the answer to that question would be. "We need to move quickly."

Isál flashed him a grim, dangerous smile that looked more than little bit like a predator that was baring its teeth.  
"Wherever you want to go, my lord."

"Very well," Elrond inclined his head and couldn't help but smile when a sudden thought struck him. "I am glad to hear it."

Knowing that Isál would not appreciate an audience for what he wanted to tell him, he took a step forward and peered into the courtyard behind the door. It had apparently been a small flower garden once, but now the flowers had wilted and died and the small trees looked dry and brittle. It seemed that the Lady of Donrag valued plants as little as people's lives, including her own men's. Even despite the fact that he couldn't help but feel sadness at the state of the garden, he felt a small smile of satisfaction grow on his face. It was a small, contained space whose only other entrance was shadowed by the two largest trees; it would be easy to surprise anyone who entered it carelessly and without suspicion in his heart.

"Glorfindel, Captain Isál, stay with me for a second," he ordered, ignoring the surprise and unwillingness on the two elves' faces. "Elladan," he turned to his son, "Lead the men inside. Take up position left and right of the door, but wait for us. Should anyone other than one of our people enter the garden, make sure that they do not alarm anybody else, but _do not venture any further_. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," the twin inclined his head. "I understand. It will be done."

A second later he was gone, the warriors silently trailing after him. Celylith, too, followed him, and for a second Elrond would have been able to swear that there was that small, fluttering shadow again. The half-elf stared at it for a second before he shook his head inwardly, telling himself that he was probably only nervous. He wasn't used to sneaking through enemy camps anymore, not to mention enemy towns.

After the warriors had disappeared through the open, dark doorway, Elrond was left with a ridiculously sullen-faced Glorfindel (who would not have approved of that particular description), an impatient-looking Isál, and Thalar and the remaining members of Elvynd's guard, who were apparently working hard on suppressing broad smiles. Isál didn't notice, too focussed were his thoughts on what he wanted to do to the people who had taken his best friend from him, and so he was rather startled when Elrond suddenly appeared in front of him, looking at him with a small smile on his lips and barely hidden worry in his eyes.

"There is something you must know before we follow my son and the others, Captain," he began. "Something very important."

"Yes, my lord, I know," Isál nodded his head, no small amount of shame filling his heart. "I know that you were right from the very beginning, I truly do. Killing them will not bring him back. It will not ease my pain or that of his parents, but at least in this way justice is served. Do not ask me to spare their lives, my lord. They deserve death, I swear they do. You have not seen how they treated your son and the prince; you have not listened to Estel when he described Lord Erestor's injuries, you have not seen _him _when he returned from here, you…"

"Isál," Elrond interrupted the young captain quickly. "This was not what I wanted to ask of you, nor what I wanted to say." He took a deep breath and decided to end this as bluntly and unambiguously as possible before it could go any further. "Elvynd lives, young one."

Isál closed his mouth with a snap, the words he had been about to speak dying on his lips. His face lost all colour, and for a short, frightening second Elrond thought that the young captain might faint. He did not, however, even though his blue eyes never left Elrond's, fixing on the elf lord's grey orbs with an intensity that would have caused a lesser elf to squirm. The captain finally regained the ability to speak, his face still chalky white and his eyes large, unbelieving and incredibly frightened.

"What?" he simply whispered, unable to say more.

"Captain Elvynd is alive," Elrond repeated, debating whether or not he should reach out and steady the younger elf, who appeared to be in the definite danger of faltering. "He survived the ambush and made his way back to Rivendell. How he did it, I cannot tell you – he should have been long dead by the time he reached the Bruinen." The half-elf watched how Isál's face turned even paler, and so he added quickly, "But he did not, _pen-neth_. He was wounded badly, yes, and almost died on his way home, but he made it. He told us what had happened, enabling us to get here in time."

Isál simply stared at his lord with large eyes, neither moving nor speaking, and this time Elrond did reach out and grasped the younger elf's shoulder.  
"You know I would not lie to you about something like this, Captain. When we left Imladris, Elvynd was still alive, and showing signs of improvement. He _lives_, Isál."

The sudden explosion of joy on the young captain's face was all Elrond could have wished for, and before the half-elf knew what was happening, the younger elf had thrown his arms around him and was hugging him. After a few moments, however, Isál seemed to realise what he was doing, and he drew back quickly, his face flushing red with embarrassment.

"Forgive me, my lord," the dark-haired elf mumbled, bowing his head. Even though long strands of his hair were falling forward, almost obscuring his features, it was almost impossible to miss the improbably large smile on his face that seemed to shine as brightly as the rising sun. "I do not know what came over me."

"There is nothing to forgive, young one," Elrond smiled, feeling that the obvious joy Isál was radiating was contagious. "I can imagine what you must feel like, and am glad that I could give you this kind of news." He looked at the beaming elf seriously, doing his best to keep up a stern façade in face of so much unbridled happiness. "Your friend will not thank you if you get yourself killed in an attempt to avenge him. Do not allow such darkness to consume you, Captain. There is always hope."

"And now more than ever before." Isál's smile widened once more, and he gave his lord a small bow before he straightened up again, faint anxiety visible on his features. "So he … he will be well?"

Elrond didn't hesitate to nod his head, even though he was not completely certain about that. When they had left Rivendell Elvynd _had _shown signs of improvement, that much was true, but especially the head wound had been bad. It was very well possible that he had taken a turn for the worse, but that was all it was: A possibility. In Elrond's professional opinion, it was an unlikely one, and he would not destroy what precarious hope this young one held so close to his heart.

"Yes, Captain," he answered, feeling how his lips curved upwards into a smile once more. "Barring any unforeseen complications, Captain Elvynd will recover. You need not worry about him any longer."

"And I will not," Isál nodded, a teasing, lighthearted glint in his eyes the other elves around him had not seen for long days. "_He _is the one that should worry, not me. How dare he get himself _almost _killed without informing me of that very important fact? We have a lot to talk about once we get back home."

"See to it that you are alive to do so, _pen-neth_," Elrond told the younger elf, all mirth disappearing from his face and being replaced by stern concern. "I do not wish to watch him go down the same path you have."

"I would not wish that on anyone, my lord, least of all on him whom I love so dearly," Isál replied in a similar tone of voice. "I hear your words, my lord, and will abide by them." He bowed his head shortly, about to turn into the direction of the open doorway, before he raised his gaze again, utter seriousness in his blue eyes. "I thank you, my lord."

"For delivering this kind of news?" Elrond asked with a soft smile. "Anyone could have done it. You need not thank me, Captain."

"No, my lord," the dark-haired captain shook his head, his face turning even more serious, if that was even possible. "I thank you, for his life – and my own."

Giving the elf lord a last bow, he turned around and disappeared over the threshold. Thalar made an obvious effort to erase the smile on his face and looked at Elrond, silently asking for permission to follow the captain. Elrond only nodded, and the commander and his men began to trail after the dark-haired elf, all of them moving with the silence that was to be expected from warriors of Rivendell. In less than a dozen seconds, Elrond and Glorfindel were alone, two dark shadows against the even darker stones of the wall.

The golden-haired elf gave his friend a slightly suspicious look, as if expecting him to grab him, before he quite obviously shook his head inwardly and gave their surroundings a last, searching look. When he was satisfied that no one had observed them, he turned around as well, about to follow his warriors, when a long hand firmly closed around his elbow, holding him back. Not very surprised, Glorfindel's eyes travelled from the hand up the arm to the face of its owner, and he almost sighed when he saw that particular _look _in the other elf's eyes.

Glorfindel sighed again, this time openly. He should have known that it would be impossible for a son of Elwing and Eärendil to let him go just like that, shouldn't he?

"Is there a change of plans, my lord?" he asked calmly, trying for the formal, official approach. He doubted that it would work, but it was worth a try.

"No," the half-elf answered, narrowing his eyes at him in what might have been suspicion or mistrust. "Now that Isál can lead us, I shall take the main force and follow him."

"And I will take the warriors I selected and shall endeavour to locate Erestor," Glorfindel added calmly. "I will do as you command, my lord. If there is nothing else, I shall…"

"Don't," Elrond told him curtly, studying his face intensely. "Don't try to put up walls between us that are neither needed nor wanted. We do not have much time, so I will make this brief. Do not let your hatred and anger blind you, my friend. I have no wish to mourn another friend – only this time for real."

"What would you have me do, Elrond?" Glorfindel asked, exasperation tingeing his voice. "Forget what happened? Ignore what they did to Erestor, and your sons and the prince? Let them get away with it, just like that? You cannot seriously ask something like that of me!"

"I would hear your intentions," Elrond answered, his steely voice very clearly stating that he did not intend to let himself be intimidated by the blond elf. "Are you planning to lead my warriors to save Erestor, Elrohir and the others – or are you here for vengeance, and vengeance alone?"

"You need to ask?" Glorfindel asked through clenched teeth. "You know that I love your children like I would love my own, and would give my life for any of them. And Erestor is my friend, and I have few enough of them as it is. You know that I want to save him, and your son, more than anything else."

"And yet…" Elrond prompted quietly.

"And yet I want to kill them, all of them," Glorfindel answered, fervent hatred vibrating in his voice. "They do not deserve to live, not if they willingly carry out such orders without thought or question or doubt. I want to watch them die, and I want to make them understand the full magnitude of their error before they go!"

"That attitude belongs into older, more vicious times, Glorfindel," Elrond told his friend in a reasonable tone of voice. "Do you…"

"I _am _of these older, more vicious times, Elrond!" Glorfindel hissed, and would probably have shouted if that wouldn't have brought the guards down upon them. "In my youth, the Noldor had seeking revenge down to an art form! I am a Vanya, as you well know, but I also have some deep-elven blood, just like you – and what I have is more than enough. I want blood for blood, Elrond, _their _blood for _his_!"

Elrond didn't avert his calm grey eyes from his friend's face, and finally nodded slowly.  
"Fine."

"It is my right as both his friend and the captain of our…" Glorfindel trailed off, apparently only now realising what his friend had just said. He stared at his lord and friend with wide eyes, suspicion blooming in his eyes as he added carefully, "What did you say?"

If this situation hadn't been so serious and dangerous, Elrond might have laughed.

"Do not misjudge me so, my friend," he told the older elf with a small, somewhat sad smile. "I, too, have followed the call of vengeance, have tasted revenge on my lips, have even fought my own kin! I have more than enough of the blood of my father's people in me to know the sweet call of vengeance, Glorfindel. I _am _a Noldo."

He took a step closer to the fair-haired elf, his grey eyes boring into Glorfindel's blue ones.

"I will not stop you, Glorfindel. These men here have forfeited their lives a dozen times and more. Even if the One punishes me for it one day, I want you to make sure that a stop is put to this. I want you to make sure that they can never do such things again. I want you to kill them, for him, for me, and because we both know that that is the only way to stop people like this mad captain once and for all. And," he added, his grey eyes looking almost black and very, very cold, "I would be lying if I told you that I wanted you to kill them quickly. All I want of you is your promise that you will not risk your life needlessly. No more, no less."

Glorfindel looked at the younger elf, suppressing a sad smile when he saw something in the other's eyes he hadn't seen in the grey orbs for nearly three thousand years. Something dark and dangerous and utterly merciless, something he hadn't seen since Ereinion Gil-galad had fallen, together with so many of their kin.

"You have it," he only answered curtly.

"Good," Elrond answered, in a similar, uncompromising tone of voice. "I am getting tired of burying friends, especially old ones of which I have left so few."

"Do not worry over me, child," the older elf lord smiled. "The first time, it took a balrog to slay me, even as I slew it. I do not intend to let anything less terrible and mighty than maybe the Witch-king kill me this time."

The half-elf shuddered openly at his friend's words, and even forgot to look at him darkly for the completely inappropriate use of term 'child' – after all, elves of more than six thousand years could hardly be called children, no matter by whom. He could still remember the horror he had felt when he had received word that Glorfindel had faced the Witch-king of Angmar, all these long years ago in the Battle of Fornost.

It had been the right decision to try and aid the King of Arthedain, the last remaining realm of the Dúnedain of the North. Even if it hadn't been something he had felt he had owed Arvedui, the last king of the North, as one of Isildur's and therefore Elros' descendants, it would have been stupid to sit by and idly watch while the Witch-king overran the North with his armies. Arvedui had called for aid, and even thought Gondor had answered, it had been too late, and history had taken its course. The armies of the South reached Mithlond too late, and when they arrived, Arthedain had already fallen and with it its king.

Even though they had been too late, the Men of Gondor would not just leave like that. They had come for a reason, and would not have their kin slain without trying to avenge their deaths. Círdan and Eärnur, son of Eärnil of Gondor, called every man or elf who could bear arms to their banner, and finally marched against and fought the Witch-king between the Lake Nenuial and the North Downs, north-east of Annúminas. He could not have refused to aid his dead king's mentor or an heir of Anárion, Elrond mused, nor would he have wanted to, and so he had sent Glorfindel north with as many warriors as he could spare.

His seneschal had been successful, of course, and even now there were many songs sung about his deeds and valour. Together with Círdan's and Eärnur's forces, Glorfindel and his men had managed to route their enemies, and the Witch-king and his armies were utterly defeated. It did not save the Northern Kingdom which fell into ruin, its strength spent and its men scattered, but it drove the Lord of the Nazgûl from his realm to flight and into shadows.

The battle's success notwithstanding, it had shaken Elrond to the bone, and not only because it marked the loss of hundreds of good warriors and the ultimate end of the Realm of Arnor. Not since the last great battle before the Dark Tower, when Gil-galad and Elendil had fallen and everything had seemed lost, had he felt such all-consuming, choking fear like on that day when he heard about Glorfindel's actions, when he heard how his friend had faced the Lord of the Nazgûl and had turned him to flight.

The argument they'd had about this particular subject had been neither short nor pretty to witness, but Elrond had been too relieved about the older elf's survival to be able to work himself into a real state of fury. The lingering terror hadn't left him for a long time, though, and even now the mere thought of someone he loved as dearly as he loved Glorfindel facing one of the Nine, not to mention the Witch-king himself, was enough to send icy shivers down his back.

"Do not say something like that, Glorfindel," he begged softly. "Please, do not."

"Then I shall not do so again, my friend," Glorfindel inclined his head with a small, understanding nod. "I gave you a promise, and I shall keep it. And I will give you another one: I will find Erestor, even if I have to kill every single man in this compound."

"Never would I doubt your word, _mellon iaur_," Elrond told him seriously. "Come back alive, that is all I ask of you."

"I will, Eärendilion," the golden-haired elf assured him. "Someone has to look after you and has to stop you from acting like your reckless sons, after all."

"Yes," the younger elf nodded, his eyes large and solemn in his face. Glorfindel noted, not for the first time, how much like the young, far-too-serious elf whom he had met back when the world had still been unchanged his friend could look at times, even after all these years. "I suppose someone has to."

Glorfindel did not say anything to that, nor did he need to. He simply gave his friend a smile and inclined his head in either respect or agreement, and a moment later he had ducked through the doorway which was too low for his tall, lean body. Elrond looked after him for a long second, hoping with all his heart that his friend would be able to keep his promises – both of them. He knew that he would fight with all his strength to do so, but even Glorfindel was, after all, only an elf. Elves could die as well, in so many horrible, painful ways.

Shaking himself against that thought, Elrond turned and followed his friend, melting into the shadows with no sound to betray his passage. A moment later the door was closed from the inside, and silence and darkness once again fell over the wall.

Both would be shattered soon enough.  
**  
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This just couldn't work, a small voice inside his head told him, sounding disturbingly calm and detached. It couldn't work, it wouldn't work, and he would get himself killed. There was nothing more to say, the voice added, now adding insult to injury and sounding smug.

Aragorn ignored said voice with proficiency that – had he been in a slightly better condition – would have seriously worried him, and tightened his grip on his sword. Deep down, he knew that the voice was at least partly right – how this was supposed to work he did not know himself. Even if they managed to overpower the two guards and take their cloaks, it would still leave them with the problem of how they should dispatch their companions, who easily outnumbered them five to one, if not more.

And, as Glorfindel had told him countless times during his lessons, the element of surprise could only get you so far.

The young ranger gritted his teeth and shook his head ever so slightly (he didn't want to risk it falling off or splintering into countless tiny ragged pieces, after all), trying to push fear, doubts and pain as far away from his mind as he could. He was only partly successful, however. The fear was but a good sign, signalling that he was still alive and hadn't lost his mind yet, he was too intelligent for the doubts to disappear entirely, and the pain … well. There were a few things for which a body didn't thank you, and torture, near-drowning, people trying to cut you into pieces and a healthy dose of illness were right on top of that list.

But what was he supposed to do, he asked himself darkly while he pressed his aching body against a wooden crate in front of him, praying that he had managed to tread silently enough. Considering the way the world was once again spinning in soft circles around him, it would not have surprised him in the slightest if the contrary had been the case; right now, even a horde of orcs could probably hear his approach without any trouble at all.

They were out of options, and out of time. There was an urgency gnawing at the back of his mind, an urgency that was at least as voracious and unmerciful as a feasting predator. It might be his own, in comparison to his father rather insignificant foresight, experience or simple common sense, but he knew that there was no time to spare. The men had, after all, hardly come here to have a little picnic or something of that sort, especially not today. Besides, it was what he would have done: Pick the moment everybody was busy with the city's most important festival. Pick the first night, the night when everybody was gathered in the main plaza to be present when the council officially opened the festivities.

He didn't really know what he thought to be worse, the fact that Acalith was hatching such plans or that he was able to put himself in her place with only minimal difficulty.

Aragorn's dark thoughts were interrupted when something in front and to the right of him moved slightly, and even while he was pressing himself more firmly against the wooden container, fervently praying to Elbereth that he would not be noticed, he finally realised that he had reached his destination and that the person in front of him was one of the two guards. The man in question stepped even further to the right, therefore moving into Aragorn's field of vision, but he was far too busy complaining to his companion in a low voice about the cold weather, the late hour and his life in general to notice the young ranger.

Aragorn sighed inwardly while he kept as still as possible – movement (even movement to the point of removing himself from the guard's field of vision) would be far more noticeable than simply staying right where he was – and thought back to when Vonar had brought him two cloaks to choose from, when he had asked the young man for one before they had left Tibron's house. He had come back with a dark green one (the one he was currently wearing) and one that had been ... ruby-red, for a lack of better word. Aragorn had merely looked at the younger man with a raised eyebrow, whose face had in turn assumed the very same colour within seconds. He hadn't even needed to say what he had been thinking; his thoughts had apparently been easily visible on his face. If he wanted to be even more noticeable than he already was, he'd get himself a sign and hang it around his neck; the cloak was entirely unnecessary in his opinion.

The mental image of him trying to melt into the darkness in that ridiculous red cloak danced through his head for a second or two, and the young ranger was hard-pressed to bite back a small, half-feverish, half-amused giggle. Not even these two guards here would be able to miss him in that, and even though he seriously doubted that anything they or their leader could come up with would be as bad as Gasur's favourite methods of "amusing himself", he really did not want to find out if he was correct in his assumptions or not.

His shoulders started hurting fiercely at the mere thought, and he could almost hear the snap that been audible when the 'Fox' had broken his wrist – and a few fingers in the process. A cold shiver ran over his back and he was unable to ignore it or push it to the side. The memories were just too fresh, too full of pain and fear and helplessness, and the rational part of him knew that he would need a long time before he could think about anything connected with the past few days without cringing openly.

The only thing that gave him some solace and comfort was the complete certainty that the 'Fox' would not live to see another dawn. He hadn't been joking when he had told Torel and his cousin that Acalith's captain was living on borrowed time. He was dead; he just didn't know it yet. He didn't know who would kill him; all he knew – and cared about – was that he _would _die. Painfully, too, if the Valar were kind and possessed any sense of justice.

Yet another pleasing vision of Gasur dying in agony shot through Aragorn's head (he'd stopped counting how many of those he'd had in the past few days), but the young ranger wrenched his thoughts away from that topic, very aware of the fact that just the same would happen to him if he didn't do something, now. No matter how inattentive the two guards were, even they would notice him eventually.

His chance came so suddenly that he would almost not have reacted at all; he was simply too surprised by it. He had learned three catastrophes ago that trusting in luck or good chance was a last resort at best, and one that had failed him (and anyone who associated with him) often enough. The Valar might not really hate him and/or want to kill him – or that was what his father kept telling him, most of the time with a rather weak, unconvincing smile – but they definitely were not making anything easier for him.

Now, however, Aragorn was almost willing to believe that his foster-father was right. Not completely right, of course – the kind of things that kept happening to him all the time just didn't happen when the Valar _liked _you – but at least on to something. One of the two guards, the one who had been complaining about the general unfairness and dangerousness of life in general and his life in particular, nodded at his companion (who looked relieved more than anything else) and began to walk away from him and the warehouses. The small part of Aragorn that was not too preoccupied with the rather bad condition his body was in and was still analysing his situation calmly told him that the other man was probably answering the call of nature, or perhaps intending to light a pipe or have a drink from a hidden flask of warming alcohol.

Aragorn, however, couldn't have cared less. All he was interested in was that one of them was leaving, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was beginning to move over to the remaining guard. He soon found out that he needn't have worried about his ability to move stealthily; apparently his brothers' countless lessons were still with him – quite an achievement when one considered that he could hardly remember his own name or what he was doing here. The man never heard him coming, and so Aragorn got to see a rather funny look of complete surprise on the guard's face as the hilt of his knife connected with his skull in a rather finite and probably painful manner. He didn't utter a sound and sank to the ground like a sack of flour, and for a second Aragorn was so surprised, no, _astounded _by his success that he just kept standing there, his knife still in hand and looking rather lost.

He truly didn't know how long he would have stood there – his brain had apparently decided that enough was enough and that it wanted to relocate to a body that didn't insist on constantly ignoring its recommendations and doing capitally stupid things – but, once again, he got lucky. Before any of the other men could see him standing over the body of their guard – when holding an unsheathed knife not the best of situations! – Aragorn felt himself being grabbed and pulled to the side, into the shadow and shelter of the large, wooden crate.

Torel looked at the ranger he was pressing against the side of the container, briefly wondered how he had managed to knock out anything larger than an average-sized cat, and quickly came to the decision that there was no way Strider could get the guard out of his coat if he didn't want him to join the other man on the ground. Permanently.

"Don't move, Strider," he told the ranger as he bent down and quickly began to peel the unmoving man out of his coat. He added in a cold-blooded tone of voice that was highly at odds with the tumult of emotions in his chest, "Tell me when his friend comes back, will you? I will need only minute."

"I know," Aragorn nodded, but obediently turned to the side to watch out for the other guard. What Torel was saying sounded rather intelligent, after all. "It is _my _plan, you know."

"Aye, indeed," Torel muttered in what might have been termed a slightly sarcastic tone of voice. He tugged one last time at the uncooperative coat and finally grinned in triumph when the cloth slid free from under the unconscious man's body. "Oh yes, indeed."

"There is no reason to sound so resentful," Aragorn commented softly to himself, staring intently into the direction into which the guard had disappeared. "It's working so far, isn't it?"

Torel straightened up with the dark coat in his hands, confusion on his face, and only now did the dark-haired ranger realise that he had spoken the words in Sindarin. Sighing inwardly, he repeated the sentences in Westron, doing his best to ignore the worry in his heart. If he was beginning to speak Elvish without even noticing it, it wasn't a good sign.

For the far larger part of his life he had only talked Elvish; it was the language that marked his earliest memories. Most of his childhood, he had only talked Sindarin, and had actually learned Quenya before he had moved on to the Common Tongue. Even though he had learned to speak Westron as if he had been born to it (which, now that he thought about it, he had), he still tended to slip into Sindarin when he was worried, under a lot of stress or in pain; it was the language he spoke with his friends and family, after all, who tended to help him in such situations – if they hadn't been responsible for them, that was.

Aragorn shook his head inwardly even while he gave Torel an apologetic smile. He was apparently worse off than he had originally thought; slipping into Sindarin without even realising it was not good and his body's subtle idea of an ultimatum: Lie down and/or get professional help, or else.

He didn't even want to think about what "or else" would entail.

Thankfully, he didn't have the chance to find it out, at least not right now. Heavy footsteps that even the most imperceptive orc would have been able to hear sounded in front and to the left of him, giving him and Torel more than enough time to get into position long before the guard returned; time he urgently needed to somehow get over his small bout of disorientation and somehow concentrate on the situation at hand.

In the end, it all went far more smoothly than he had expected. Deciding that he wouldn't allow Torel to take this particular risk – just in case that the guard had better reflexes than he was vigilant – Aragorn stepped out of the shadow of the large crate in the exact moment that the man passed him. The guard stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting from Aragorn to his motionless colleague and back to the young ranger, obviously too surprised to react in any way. Moving almost soundlessly, Torel appeared behind him with his blade raised high, and a second later the guard joined his colleague on the ground.

Aragorn was still contemplating just what exactly it meant that his plan was working (it could only be a trick to make him feel safe, he decided quickly) when Torel handed him the second cloak, and a moment later the two young men were both wearing the guards' dark coats.

"So, what do we do now?" Torel asked while he fastened the garment at his throat. He obviously did his best to hide the rather desperate timbre in his voice, but Aragorn had good ears and had had even better teachers who'd taught him how to use them.

"Now we see if we can get closer to the rest of them without attracting too much attention," Aragorn replied, fighting with the fastening of his own cloak. He didn't really know why he could fight with his left hand far better than he could fasten a cloak. "Stay close to me once we are in sight, otherwise they might get suspicious. If we gradually drift closer to them, there is the fair chance that they won't notice."

Torel nodded silently, something like relief visible on his face, and Aragorn quickly turned and began to meander over to the rest of the men, pretending to be doing his rounds like a dutiful guard should. He felt guilty more than anything else, because he quite frankly had no idea what he wanted to do after they had got closer to the others. It would depend on what they discovered, he was aware of that, but right now he didn't trust himself to be able to add two and two correctly, not to mention to be able to come up with a plan.

A real plan, mind you, not this recipe-for-a-disaster which they were currently carrying out.

Aragorn's thoughts were soon turned away from this particular topic, something for which he was very grateful indeed, by the very simple fact that he didn't have enough energy to keep up the charade they were currently involved in and at the same time contemplate such rather depressing thoughts. He needed all his concentration to attune his walk to that of the guard he was pretending to be, and move with the annoyed, long-suffering walk borne of too many hours of eventless watch-duty.

He didn't think the men would have bought their act (especially since Torel apparently didn't possess a shred of acting ability and moved in a so openly nervous way that it made Aragorn teeth ache) if they hadn't been so openly concentrated on what they were doing. They were all gathered around the "building site", their heads so closely together that it was almost impossible to distinguish between them. There was another pair of guards, but Aragorn quickly dismissed them as only marginally important since their attention was quite obviously concentrated on what was going on in front of them, not at their backs.

Even though he still had some rather disconcerting problems focussing on his surroundings, they were soon so close that even his uncooperative eyes couldn't miss what was going on. Aragorn, still slowly moving along the edges of the circle he had mentally drawn around the group of men, felt how a shiver ran down his back, a shiver that had nothing to do with the fever that was slowly but surely beginning to take a hold of his body. After all, it was true what he had told Torel and his cousin not too long ago: He had seen quite a few dykes, broken or unbroken, and what he saw now was something that caused his heart to freeze up inside his chest, as if an icy hand had reached into his breast and touched it.

Next to the dam, there was something that looked a lot like a construction site: Tools that were either too large to be carried to and fro all the time or didn't possess any value were stacked in neat rows against the body of the dyke, together with various bags (probably full of earth or other substances that could be used to strengthen the dam), buckets and large stacks of roughly-hewn wood. A wooden scaffold was there, too, standing precariously perched against the smooth, curved surface of the dam, and a small tent, too, probably to guard the building materials that were more susceptible to rain and cold. A small fireplace, now cold and dark, was located in front of it, a clear sign that repairs were indeed going on here.

Not now, however, Aragorn thought darkly while he forced himself to keep moving when all he wanted to do was stop and stare. Now the fireplace was dark, the scene only being lit by a few flickering torches, and whatever these men were up to, he'd be willing to bet anything and everything he possessed that they were _not _trying to repair the dam. If the large … thing … that looked almost like a battering ram was any indication at all, they were trying to do just the opposite, something that didn't surprise him all that much.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the backs of the men, fighting the urge to walk up to them and look over their shoulders to see what they were up to. The large, battering ram-like construction was still standing next to the dam, untouched and unused. The men were rather busy digging at the dam, at least judging by the loose earth that was beginning to pile up to the left of the "construction site". The young ranger couldn't believe his eyes. What were they thinking, digging away at a dam while standing in front of it?

While Aragorn was still contemplating this rare act of foolishness – was everybody in this town stark raving mad? – another one happened right next to him, even thought nervousness, fear and a fair amount of ineptitude was at least as responsible for it as foolishness. Aragorn would never find out whether it was sheer bad luck or clumsiness (even though he strongly suspected the first, considering just how _well _everything had been going until now), but Torel … tripped. There really was no other word for it, and the young man did it in the noisiest, most spectacular fashion imaginable. The dark-haired ranger would remember for a long time how the younger man lost his footing on the muddy, slippery ground, slid at least five feet, waving his arms madly to keep his balance, and finally impacted with a mountain of loosely-stacked wooden crates.

The crates were empty, of course, and while that might have cushioned the impact somewhat and have kept Torel from serious bodily harm, it also meant that the crates tipped over most spectacularly. They crashed to the ground, making enough noise to rival a cavalry charge at top speed. Aragorn, who had truly only seen the last part of the spectacle, slowly and very purposefully raised his hand and covered his eyes. This, at least, would never have happened with an elven companion.

Resigned to his fate, he opened his eyes just in time to see the men's heads turn around, all at once and with a precision that made him suspect that they had trained it just in case they would be disturbed. They looked ridiculously like truant schoolboys who have been caught by a teacher – for a moment, that was. Then they began to move, having quickly realised that Aragorn and Torel were not their two guards and drawing their weapons in a very un-schoolboyishly manner, and Aragorn felt how a sigh rose inside of him. He was an intelligent man, after all, intelligent and honest enough to admit to himself when he was beaten. He was now, he concluded with a sense of wary acceptance. He didn't really know what he had been hoping to achieve here, what he had been hoping he could do, but fighting nearly a dozen men outright had not been it.

The fight, if you wanted to call it that, was over quickly. But while Aragorn might be willing to admit defeat to himself, he was not willing to admit it to anybody else, and least of all to people who possessed the intelligence of a bunch of voles. There was no way, no way at all, that he would allow them to take him without a fight, and besides, he really had nothing better to do at the moment. He possessed neither the strength nor the inclination to try and run away, and hiding somewhere was completely out of the question.

For Torel, the whole thing was over before it had really begun. The young man was still extracting himself from the mountain of crates into which he had so unsubtly crashed a few seconds ago, and before he could even get up, he literally found himself face to face with three swords that were pointed very unwaveringly at his throat. What he lacked in subtlety, he apparently made up for in common sense, and so he merely slowly raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

Aragorn, however, was not giving up so easily. He'd had time to draw his sword, after all, and even though he wasn't entirely sure what the strange, grey dots were that were beginning to cloud his vision (he somehow doubted that they were a good sign, though), he was rather firmly convinced to make it as hard on the men as humanly possible. Under normal circumstances, that would have meant that he stood at least a small chance, but not today.

Today he was cold, feverish, already injured, in pain and very, very alone. He managed to hold the men off for a little while – something that would have astonished all his teachers had they seen it – and even taught one or two of them that, while he might be swaying slightly from side to side, he was not beaten yet and could still wield his sword effectively. It couldn't last for long, though, that was something he knew very well, and the fact that the men tried to subdue him quickly, apparently afraid that someone might hear the fight or that he might call for aid, did not really help either.

Aragorn smiled bitterly as he felt the last of his strength give out. They didn't need to concern themselves with that; there was no one to hear them, and even if there had been someone in this Valar-forsaken town who would have been willing to aid them, he simply didn't have enough air or energy to call for help.

The blow to his back, executed with the blunt end of a spear, did not surprise him overly much when it came, then, even though the pain did. It blossomed to life in the centre of his already torn back, washing over his senses life a hot, shocking wave of pure, liquid fire, and if he'd had the air to do so, the intensity of it would have made him cry out. He barely realised that he stumbled forward, into two or three men who barely managed to turn their blades to the side in order not to impale him on their swords, and when another blow hit him, this time aimed at his left arm, he stopped thinking altogether.

He didn't notice that his sword fell from suddenly lifeless fingers, didn't notice that he joined his blade on the ground a moment later, his eyes shut tightly against the pain. He didn't hear the men congratulating each other, didn't hear how the two he had wounded growled and hissed in pain when their comrades tried to look after their injuries, didn't hear how Torel called for him, sounding very young and incredibly frightened. He didn't even feel it when rough, uncaring hands picked him up and jerked his arms behind him to bind his wrists with coarse rope (just from where did these people get the rope all the time?), even though a small part of him noticed that the agony intensified as his broken wrist was touched and twisted.

Suddenly he was moving, or rather was being moved, namely over the cold, muddy ground. The movement made his head spin and his stomach heave, and if they hadn't already been closed, he would have clamped his eyes shut. After a very short while that still felt like half an eternity he was dropped and pushed to his knees, two pairs of hands pressing him forcefully down and keeping him in place, and when the world remained still for several seconds he decided to take the risk and open his eyes again.

The sight in front of him wasn't exactly the most pleasing one, and if he'd thought that it would help in any way, he'd have closed his eyes again. In fact, he had to tell himself very hard not to do so; right now all that filled his mind was pain, and it sounded like a very good idea. It had worked when he had been a child, after all; it had always served to block out a painful, frightening world until Elrond came to soothe and comfort him. He had to employ all his self-control to keep his eyes open and use them to stare defiantly at the man in front of him; he knew that, no matter how much he wished it, his foster-father would not appear.

It was a sobering thought indeed, and one that frightened him more than he was willing to admit even to himself.

The grinning face of the man in front of him slowly and reluctantly swam into focus, and Aragorn squinted, trying to make out his features. The man's face twisted into an even more amused grimace, and that in addition to his swarthy features and his muscular, tall frame was enough to jog the young ranger's memory. The pain that filled him was almost immediately joined by anger, a cold-blooded anger that would have put even Glorfindel to shame. He knew this man, knew even his name, and the last time he had seen him, he had nearly cut Legolas' throat.

The man in question grinned down at the two young men in front of him, his amusement only heightening when he saw the look of pure murder that the ranger shot him. He hadn't looked so much different when he and his men had … persuaded … him and the elf to accompany them out of their master's burning house – well, perhaps a bit. He'd had a healthier colour and fewer bruises, and had certainly looked livelier.

"Well, well, well," he began, still grinning jocundly, "what have we got here? Two little rats, trying to disturb our work?"

"Work!" Torel spat, angrily trying to shake off the hands that kept him on his knees. He was to equal parts afraid and furious – even though the furious part was right now a lot larger – and, right now, couldn't have cared less about the consequences of his words. The ranger was rubbing off on him, he guessed. "Work? Murder is the more appropriate word, isn't it?"

Addric didn't even have to nod at the men standing behind the young man – he had trained them well, after all – and his smile widened as one of them drew back and dealt a blow to the back of his head that threw the younger man forwards with a choked-off cry of pain. He waited patiently until the two guards had picked the councilman's son back up, ignoring the now even darker looks the ranger shot him, and addressed Torel again when he looked as if he could follow what was being said to him.

"Murder is such a nasty word, boy," he told him mildly. "I would have expected such insolence from your friend here, but not from you! Didn't your esteemed father teach you anything?"

Torel didn't answer, either because his skull was still rattling too loudly or because he had decided that he would not honour such a question with a reaction, and so Addric turned to Aragorn, apparently already bored.

"We really have caught some rats, men! And what rats, too!" he called out, giving his men another grin. Aragorn sent a dark prayer to the One that he would be there when someone wiped that stupid grin off the man's face. Addric, oblivious to his captive's thoughts, continued, still smiling amenably. "Well, if that's not a pleasant surprise," he smiled at Aragorn. "This is the first time I meet a ghost! Aren't you supposed to be dead, ranger?"

"No," Aragorn shook his head slowly, pensively. Those who knew him would have recognised the dark, dangerous light in his eyes and would have dived for cover. "No, not really. But you will be, Addric. We have a score to settle, you and I."

"Do we?" Addric retorted, his forehead crinkling as he pretended to think hard. "Ah yes, the elf! I don't understand the fuss you're making, boy. I did, after all, _not _cut his throat, even though I could have – and besides, the whole thing was your fault for misbehaving like that. You really are nursing a grudge there, ranger."

"Yes," the younger man nodded, eyeing the men's leader with an expression that could only be called coldly murderous. For a person who was being forced to kneel in the mud, it looked incredibly threatening. "Yes, I can do that."

Addric shot him a look that once again proved that, while he thought himself very funny, he did not appreciate signs of humour or funniness in anybody else.  
"Apparently. Now, to more pressing matters. Where are Bodar and his men? They were supposed to take care of little rats like you."

His two captives exchanged a look that was somewhere between satisfied, disconcerted and faintly amused.  
"They won't be joining us," Aragorn said eventually, finality in his voice.

"Oh?" Addric asked loftily, taking a step closer to the two kneeling youths. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Aragorn, and was now towering over them. "Where are they, ranger? I would advise you to answer my questions, or you will find out just how unpleasant I can be."

Something that might have been a dark, dark smile danced over the ranger's pale, bruised featured. There was no way to be sure, however, so quickly had it disappeared again.  
"In a warehouse, about fifteen minutes up the road directly behind us." The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, and this time there was no mistaking the cold, merciless smile for what it was. "You'd better bring a shovel."

All humour disappeared from Addric's face. Even though he didn't know what exactly the ranger was talking about, he understood one thing, understood it so clearly that it might have been written on the other's man's forehead: Bodar and the others were dead, all of them. He didn't know how the ranger – the boy! – had done it, how he and Toran's son had escaped nearly a dozen men, but that hardly mattered.

This time, he didn't wait for his men to take action. Bodar had been his friend, yes, but he would have done it regardless, even if he hadn't been able to stand him. There was something so incredibly infuriating about the dark-haired ranger, something that smelled of quiet strength and pride and superiority, something that made him feel small and inadequate, no matter the situation. Before the two guards could even raise a hand, Addric was there, taking a hold of the younger man's dark, shoulder-length hair and twisting his head back. At the same time, he drew one of his knives, placing the razor-sharp, gleaming knife against the other's cheek even while one of the guards shifted slightly to the side to give his superior more space.

Addric stared into the large grey eyes that bore into his while he twisted the ranger's head back more and more. The position must have been nigh unbearable for the younger man, especially bound and held fast as he was, but there was no pain visible in the bright orbs that fixed him with a look of absolute disgust.

"Is that so?" he asked softly, trailing the tip of the naked blade down the ranger's cheek, leaving a thin, red line in its wake.

Aragorn refrained from nodding his head – quite understandable in his position – but couldn't stop himself from smiling again, knowing full well what an effect that had on Addric.  
"Oh yes," he retorted just as softly. "That is so."

"How did you get here?" Addric insisted, pressing the tip of the knife down a little more firmly. "Who told you where to go? How did you know about our plans?"

"No one," Aragorn answered, coldly, disinterestedly. "No one told us. It wasn't hard to figure it out, after all – your _master _ is not very creative, is he? And we are not the only ones to come up with the truth; even as we are talking, Master Tibron and the council are being informed of your plans. They will come to nothing, Addric, nothing at all."

"You are lying, ranger," the older man told him, sounding not very sure about that fact and twisting Aragorn's head back even more to emphasise his point.

A faint shimmer of pain could be seen in the ranger's silver eyes, but it was pushed back quickly and replaced by anger, hatred and contempt.  
"Am I?" Aragorn asked coolly. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am not. That is something you will have to risk, won't you? I wouldn't concern myself overly much, though, if I were you. You will share Bodar's fate and that of his men, in one way or another."

Almost against his will, Addric loosened his grip and stepped back. He didn't really know what to think or say to that; all he knew was that the strange stirring he had felt in his breast could not be fear. Could it?

"_You _will join them soon enough, ranger, don't you worry," he declared, in order to say _something_. He turned back to his men and nodded at them in a rather impatient manner, as if the unexpected delay was their fault. "Now, however, we have work to do."

The men mumbled amongst themselves and began to drift back to the "building site" – the guards, unfortunately, remained in place – and the first of them had already once again begun to dig at the deep, wide hole when their actions registered in Aragorn's mind. He twisted in his guards' grip, incredulity and alarm on his face.

"Stop it!" he called urgently, staring at Addric's for once expressionless face. "Stop it, in Elbereth's name! Can't you see what you are doing?"

The older man didn't answer him immediately and kept his attention focussed on the ever-deepening hole. It was large now, at least as big as two or three badger holes, and even though Aragorn couldn't see just how deep it was, he knew instinctively that they didn't have long to go until they would break through. Water was seeping through the loose earth, the flow becoming increasingly stronger by the minute. The brown-haired man took a long look, appearing completely unimpressed, gave his men some instructions and finally turned back to Aragorn, that smug smile firmly back in place.

"Spare me the moral lecture, ranger," he told him in a long-suffering tone of voice, as if he was a particularly annoying child. "Everybody I and my men care about – and there aren't too many – has been brought to higher ground. Our master pays us well, and will continue to do so. Why should we care about what happens to the rest of the town?"

"Why should you _care_?" Torel repeated, flabbergasted. He had apparently shaken off his momentary paralysis. "There are thousands of people in the city, Addric, thousands of women and children! My sister is here, and my little brother, and my parents, my cousin and my uncle! You would let them die, all of them, the entire city, just like that?"

Addric looked at him, slightly surprised, and didn't need long to contemplate his answer.  
"Yes?"

Torel closed his mouth, unable to think of anything to say to that, and Aragorn quickly took over, knowing very well that they wouldn't get very far with an appeal to the men's mercy or sense of honour. They didn't possess either, to begin with.

"I am not talking about anything like that," he shook his head, unable to keep the scorn off his face or out of his voice. "Not to you, of all people. By the Valar, think! What do you think will happen if you break through this dam like this? What do you think will happen to you?"

Addric gave him that look again that suggested that he was simply humouring him, and Aragorn once again had to fight the urge to jump up and try to strangle him.  
"Nothing, of course, boy. We'll have plenty of time to get away. And you…" He trailed off and shrugged exaggeratedly. "Well, you will have a whole lot of other problems."

Aragorn shook his head again unwillingly, impatience laying itself over his features at so much brazen stupidity.  
"'Plenty of time'?" he repeated, ignoring the older man's rather unoriginal threat. "You won't have any time at all! Have you _ seen _the Hoarwell lately, Addric? Have you seen how swollen it is? Do you have any idea what kind of pressure is bearing on the dykes at the moment? If this dam is breached, you won't even have time to blink before the water carries all of you along and floods this entire area! Even if your 'friends' don't do their jobs and don't manage to breach their areas, you will still be doomed!"

Addric looked at him steadily, but there was the first flicker of doubt in his eyes.  
"Master Hurag assured us that…"

"Master Hurag!" Aragorn exclaimed incredulously. The hands of his guards clamped down harder on his shoulders, but he ignored them. "Hurag cares as little about you as you care about the inhabitants of this town! I don't know what he told you, Addric, but he is lying! You will die, all of you, if you do as he bade you."

"You are just trying to save your skin, ranger-scum," one of the men muttered, shooting Aragorn a hateful glare. "The master wouldn't…"

"Oh yes, he would!" Aragorn protested firmly. "Of course he would! Can't you see it? He is using you, using you as he would use pieces in a game! He knew that you don't stand a chance to survive this, and still he sent you here! He is sacrificing you, all of you, to get what he wants! He does not care if you live or die!" He gave the men around him a dark, sarcastic look. "And, if anything, hiring new guards will come him cheaper than paying you."

"Enough of this!" Addric shook his head unwillingly, only too aware of the effect the ranger's words had on his men. "Hold your tongue, boy, or I just might remove it for you."

"And what would that change?" Aragorn asked back, unperturbed. He knew that antagonising Addric was not a very good idea, but if the men really went on with their plan, they would die, and Torel and he with them. "It would not change what is true and what is not!"

"True," Addric agreed, giving the younger man an emotionless look that proclaimed his utter seriousness. "But it would grant me a few moments of peace and give me no small amount of pleasure."

He took a step closer to the kneeling ranger, grasping his chin to force him to look at him and cruelly digging his fingers into the bruised flesh. Blazing silver-grey eyes were lifted to stare at him, and there was something so cold and simply not human in his gaze that Addric had to force himself not to let go again immediately.

"Hold you tongue," he repeated calmly. "Or I will first remove your friend's," he nodded at Torel who glowered at him, "and then your own. And, trust me on this, I will enjoy it, too."

With a last twist of his fingers that must nearly have broken the younger man's jaw, he let go and stepped back. He looked at the two youths' faces for a moment before he either got bored or couldn't bear their dark glares anymore, and he finally turned around and headed back to where his men were working, no more than twenty feet away.

Aragorn watched him go, his eyes dark with anger and loathing, but he followed his instructions and remained silent. Addric was no Gasur, far from it, actually, but he was ruthless and possessed an uncaring nature that already bordered on cruelty. He would fulfil his threats, about that he had no doubts at all, and while he didn't really care anymore what about happened to him, he would not willingly endanger Torel even more. A moment later Aragorn frowned inwardly and revised his opinion. That wasn't entirely true; he was rather attached to his tongue and would hate to lose it like this. How should he truly and effectively annoy Legolas and his brothers without it?

The dark-haired ranger was brought out of his rather morbid thoughts by Torel, who was leaning towards him once he saw that their guards' attention was fixed on their comrades' work rather than them.  
"Forgive me, Strider," he whispered softly, hanging his head in shame. "This is all my fault."

"No," Aragorn shook his head almost imperceptibly, his lips barely moving in order not to alert their guards to their conversation. "No, it is not. Do not worry yourself, Torel. It was a fool's errant to begin with."

"By now Vonar will have told Uncle Tibron what is going on," the younger man retorted urgently. "He will find us."

Aragorn smiled sadly at the curly-haired boy, refraining from pointing out that, if no miracle happened, Vonar would reach Tibron too late. The boy hadn't been too badly wounded, but the city was completely packed today. No matter how well Vonar knew his home town, he would need considerable time to reach the town hall, and probably even more to convince the people there to let him see his father. And then Tibron would have to inform his fellow councilmen and would have to find enough people to check the other "building sites"…

The young ranger trailed off with an inward sigh. Unless Tibron was, out of whatever reason, already out on the streets, looking for them, there was no chance at all that they would be found before it was too late. He did not look at Torel, not wanting the younger man to see the hopelessness and disillusionment in his eyes, and kept staring at the working men. They were right now bringing the battering ram-like construction into place, apparently about to use it to break through the last few meters of the dam, completely oblivious to the fact that they were about to sign their own death warrant. And not only their own, he added mentally. Theirs as well, Torel's and his, and probably that of everybody else in this town.

Realising that the younger man was still waiting for an answer, he smiled again, quite blandly.

"Yes," he agreed softly. "Yes, he just might find us."

Dead, that was.  
**  
****  
****  
**  
****

If Elrohir hadn't been completely sure that this was the main courtyard of Acalith's mansion, he would not have believed that they were now entering the same square. It wasn't that it had changed its outward appearance – and how should it have done that in less than half a day, too? – but the atmosphere was different, very different.

The first time they had been brought here, there had been faint excitement in the air, mixed with what might have been a bit of triumph and glee. The men they had seen had obviously been very proud of themselves, and had found various (and for them often unpleasant) ways of showing that, too. Now, however, there was something else: Anger and fear, both so easy to feel that Elrohir could almost see them float in the air.

The anger wasn't too hard to understand – even though it would have been more logical to be angry with the guards that had allowed them to escape than with them for doing so, at least in his opinion – but he wasn't quite sure of whom the men were afraid. If they were afraid of their captain's and lady's displeasure, he understood it completely, but they could hardly be afraid of them. They were, after all, such a pitiful sight that any normal kind of person (who were admittedly in short supply here) would have started weeping upon setting eyes on them.

He most certainly would have, if he had been in their place and wouldn't have been busy trying to keep one of his best friends from bleeding to death.

A new jab to his back made him wince inwardly, and he reluctantly began to move again, looking over his shoulder to give the man who had shoved him forward with the blunt end of his spear the best version of his father's _look _that he could manage right now. It wasn't quite up to his usual standards, but it was apparently enough: The guard averted his eyes in an exaggeratedly furtive manner and pretended to find a sudden interest in the dark, grey sky. Elrohir stared at him for a second longer before he, too, returned his attention to something else, namely to safely finding his way through the courtyard and making his way over to where his men were being held. The last thing he needed now was to stumble and fall.

It would look stupid, after all, and if he had been told one thing countless times, it was that young elf lord did _not _look stupid, especially not in front of their enemies.

And besides, he reasoned, trying to ignore the faint panic that was beginning to creep up his spine and into his heart, it would most certainly not help Legolas. A fall – or anything more strenuous than a falling feather – would rather certainly prove to the younger elf that he was in fact not indestructible, in a very, very final manner. And that, Elrohir decided firmly, was something he would _not _allow. Apart from the fact that he had come to like that annoying, overly-smug wood-elf, he would have to inform his father about it, and that was something he would rather like to avoid. Like every other sane being, he was scared of King Thranduil.

The twin's face darkened even more and he unconsciously tightened his grip on his friend's near-unconscious body as he made his way over to his men, prodded along by what had to be most of the guards' corps. He would also have to tell Aragorn – another thing he would like to avoid. Then again, a dark voice inside his head whispered maliciously, it was also entirely possible that his little brother was already dead and that he therefore wouldn't have to worry about it. After all, who knew what was happening in Aberon right now? Would they see or feel it when the other city was flooded? Would he hear the sound that would herald the deaths of his brother and thousands of other people?

With an enormous amount of will-power, Elrohir ignored the little voice and tuned it out, even though he knew that it was at least partly right. He couldn't see a way out of this situation, for none of them. There was nothing he could do to help Estel, nothing at all. All he could do was pray that he would be spared by the floods, somehow, that he was lucky enough to survive. And they themselves … well, there he didn't even have that small hope. Meneldir and his men seemed to have been captured as well, if they weren't dead already, and them… The twin cut off that train of thought with a small, resigned sigh. There was no way Legolas, he and his men would get out of this, not unless a miracle happened. A big one.

'And Legolas might not even live long enough for these madmen here to carry out their threat, don't forget that.'

There it was again, that annoying, far too astute little voice, and, once again, it just might be right. Elrohir had to admit that Legolas did look dreadful, no matter how much he wished to deny it. With an inner sigh and hopeless reluctance that scared him deeply, the twin turned his attention to the elf he held in his arms, ignoring the guards' attempts to make him move more quickly – when exactly had being prodded and pushed inspired anyone to do anything?

"Dreadful" might even be an understatement: Legolas didn't look dreadful; he looked wholly, completely terrible. There was almost no colour left in his cheeks, the pale skin looking positively translucent, and his eyes were tightly shut, his jaw muscles bunched up in a way that very clearly stated that the fair-haired elf was only one step away from screaming in pain. His midsection was stained a dark-red colour that was fading to a more brownish tone at the edges, while in the centre bright scarlet spots could be seen that grew bigger and redder with every bigger movement Elrohir had to make.

For all intents and purposes, Elrohir concluded with a cool calmness that was only to be attributed to his training in the healing arts, Legolas looked almost dead. If it hadn't been for the jerky, frighteningly shallow rise and fall of his chest, the growing spots of blood on his tunic or the faint trembling that travelled through the still body from time to time, Elrohir could have been fooled. The only thing that seemed to be moving was the prince's blond hair that was hanging over Elrohir's arm, the long strands that were dotted with blood here and there swaying gently in the night's breeze.

The dark-haired elf's attention was turned away from his friend when the part of him that had been keeping track of his surroundings informed him with the mental equivalent of a jab in the ribs that he had reached his destination, namely the place where the other warriors were standing, their backs to what looked like a storage building. He noticed that none of his men had been bound – not that it would have been necessary, he admitted a moment later. They were surrounded by at least two or three dozen guards who had drawn a tight semicircle around them, all of them pointing their unsheathed weapons at them. Elves were fast and their reflexes excellent, it was true, but there was no way any of them could escape this particular situation, especially considering that there were far more guards all over the courtyard. It seemed that the humans had considered trying to bind all of them more trouble than it was worth, a notion Elrohir could understand only too well. He, for one, had no intentions at all to make _anything _easy for them.

The twin's grey eyes surveyed the scene quickly even while he was pushed into the direction of his men. He took in his men's condition – not too bad considering what they'd been through, he thought, only a few cuts and bruises and maybe a broken bone here and there – and the way they stared at the humans, a murderous light shining in their eyes. The biggest part of him concentrated on the guards, though, on their positions and arms. Even though he knew that they probably wouldn't get out of this, he was not going to give up just like that. A chance to escape might yet present itself, and he would be ready when it did.

What he completely ignored, however, was the large scaffold that had been erected during the night, made out of dark, obviously worn wood, no more than perhaps twenty or forty feet to their left. It was obvious that it had been used quite a few times in the past; there were dark, ominous stains on it that Elrohir didn't even want to try and identify. It wasn't too interesting either; it wasn't that he had never seen such constructions before. In fact, it seemed that he _did _see them quite often of late, another development he blamed wholly on Estel's corrupting influence.

Shouldering aside the last guard that separated him from his men with a movement that very clearly stated that he was not afraid of him or his companions in the slightest, Elrohir joined his men, giving them a quick nod that looked strangely calm and unconcerned while he was in fact neither. They inclined their heads, looking just as unconcerned, but anyone who looked more closely would have seen the worry none of them was able or even willing to hide. As gently as he could, Elrohir bent down and positioned his still motionless burden on the ground, picking the spot that looked the least muddy. No matter how gentle he was and how much he tried not to jostle his friend, the fair-haired elf's body convulsed slightly as he was laid onto the ground, the sudden contact with the hard earth sending a stab of pain through his middle that nearly made him scream with the intensity of it.

Elrohir winced with sympathy and once again wished Gasur into whatever dark pits there were for creatures like him in the afterlife. Anger quickly followed the hatred that welled up inside of him, anger at what that … man … had done to his friend, and then there was relief that the human was in fact not here. He hadn't seen him since he had picked up Legolas and carried him out of the cellars, and he couldn't help but wish that the man had taken a wrong turn somewhere and had fallen into a conveniently placed, bottomless chasm. It was a rather unlikely hope, he knew that, but one that filled his heart with warmth nonetheless.

Not even bothering to spare the humans one glance and knowing that his men would let him know if anything happened, he dropped to his knees, his eyes wandering over his friend's body as he tried to decide where to start. It seemed that some of Legolas' old wounds, especially the long cut to his left side and arm he had sustained during his escape, had reopened again, but those could wait. If he didn't get the knife wound to stop bleeding, the last thing to bother his friend would be his old wounds.

Cursing the men for having taken his coat before they'd pushed him into that cellar, he began to rip strips out of his own shirt. He knew very well that he couldn't afford to waste any time, and so he bunched up several of them into a thick pad, pushed Legolas' hands to the side that were weakly grasping at the injury, and pressed it onto the wound, inwardly already apologising to his friend. Instead of trying to fasten it with his makeshift bandages, the twin leaned forward and applied as much pressure as he dared.

The reaction he had been expecting was quick to come. Almost as soon as the pad touched the wound, the prince's body reared up, the unexpected pain too much for his already weakened body. Elrohir forced himself to ignore his friend's half-choked cry of pain and the moans he could not hold back, completely focussed on what he was doing. Legolas tried to push him away, half-delirious with pain, but the Silvan Elf didn't possess the strength to do so. Murmuring soft words of comfort and apology, Elrohir grasped his wrists with his left hand while he continued to put pressure on the wound with his right, making sure that Legolas didn't disturb it in his frantic attempts to escape the pain.

After several long moments, the elven prince's strength seemed to give out and he stopped fighting, something that filled Elrohir both with relief and worry. Pushing the latter to the side, the twin concentrated on stopping the blood flow, and finally, after adding a second and finally a third pad, he began to wind the ragged strips of cloth around Legolas' middle, securing them as best as he was able.

With the very insufficient knowledge that he had done all he could and that that would very likely not be enough, Elrohir tied off the bandage and sat down a little, trying to ignore the way his hands shook with fear and worry. Reaching out with a blood-stained hand, he brushed some sweaty strands of hair away from Legolas' pale, bruised forehead. The other elf's skin was cold and clammy to the touch and he was not reacting at all, showing no signs that he was even conscious, and the dark-haired elf once again had to push the ever-present panic to the side that threatened to swallow him whole. He was becoming quite proficient at it, he mused bitterly.

"Don't you even think about it, _mellon nín_," he whispered softly, so softly that not even the elven warriors at his back would be able to hear him. "I will not inform your father or Estel about your death. By Eru and all the Valar, but I will not."

To his substantial surprise – he hadn't really thought that his friend could hear him – a pair of glazed silver-blue eyes opened, staring blindly at his face. Legolas pressed his lips tightly together as another wave of pain washed over him, but he kept looking at the twin's face, determination and stubborn refusal to give up just yet in his gaze.  
"Not … dead … yet."

"No," Elrohir agreed with a weak smile, grasping one of the wood-elf's hands. "No, you are not. And I won't let you die, either."

"Is … t-that … a p-p-promise?"

"Oh yes," Elrohir nodded solemnly, squeezing the other's hand. "It is."

Before he could say more, a hand touched his shoulder, and he had to force himself not to jump or startle visibly. He knew that it could only be one of his warriors, for the other elves would hardly have allowed a human to come so close to him without at least trying to warn him, but he had been so concentrated on Legolas that he had forgotten all about his surroundings. Considering how unpleasant the situation was, it was rather understandable.

"My lord!" a voice whispered urgently, and Elrohir looked up to see what had alarmed the elf. He didn't have to search long; there were some people you just didn't miss, and Gasur was definitely one of them. It wasn't that he was physically imposing in any way; if anything, he looked rather ordinary, middle-sized and with his plain brown hair and light brown eyes. He possessed an aura, though, an aura that spoke so clearly of anger and hatred and insanity that even the most imperceptive dwarf would have noticed it.

Gasur looked in their direction and gave them a grin that could be called nothing but psychotic. He did not come over to them yet, though, stopping in front of the wooden scaffold to talk with the other, chestnut-haired officer. Said officer didn't look too happy about that development, and if the expressions on two men's faces were anything to go by, they were having yet another argument. Elrohir wasn't in the mood to concede anything to the men, but the fact that they didn't seem to like Gasur either spoke in their favour. That didn't mean that he would be willing to spare them, of course; he would feel guilty for a half a second instead of being deliriously happy when he killed them, that was all.

For a second, Elrohir considered staying where he was, but then he decided against it. He wouldn't give Gasur anything, anything at all, and he would not speak to him from such an inferior position when the mad captain finally decided to come over to them to gloat, brag and generally tell them in what horrible way they would all die, as he was wont to. All insane, sadistic megalomaniacs did, after all.

The twin squeezed Legolas' hand once again before he gently deposited it on the other elf's chest, and with a last long look at his friend's pale face he rose to his feet, inwardly taking a deep, steeling breath. He had the very distinct feeling that he wouldn't live to see the next dawn, that none of them would, and the possibility of never seeing Elladan again on this side of the Sea was enough to nearly send him over the edge into mindless panic. He was a son of Elrond, though, grandson of Eärendil and scion of more lords and ladies, kings and queens than he could count, and he would _not _show that fear to anyone, least of all the humans here.

His warriors seemed to guess some of what he was thinking, and the one who had warned him of Gasur's presence stepped forward, looking at him with serious grey eyes. Elrohir identified him as Fêrdhol, one of the warriors who had attended warrior training with him.  
"How is the prince, my lord?" he asked in a rather laudable if vain attempt to take his lord's mind off these particular worries.

Elrohir involuntarily looked back down at his friend, taking in the renewed pallor of his face and his tightly closed eyes.  
"Not good," he admitted softly in a pressed, clipped tone of voice. "Not good at all. Even for a healthy elf it would have been a bad, a very bad, wound, but for him…" He trailed off and shook his head helplessly. "He needs help, soon."

To their credit, the warriors didn't say anything and merely bowed their heads. They didn't try to comfort him or tell him that everything would be all right; if anybody knew how badly off Prince Legolas really was, it was Lord Elrond's son, after all. And besides, they were all far too experienced and intelligent to know that the chances that they got out of this in time to get help for the elven prince were … well, slim at the very least. And who should come to their aid? Commander Meneldir and his men had been captured and no one in Aberon cared about them or their fates in the slightest.

"Well," the Fêrdhol finally commented softly, "At least Captain Isál and some of the others got away."

The other elves nodded as one. None of them resented their comrades for following their lord's order, and all of them hoped that they would manage to find Lord Erestor and free him – and if not that, then at least to escape and make their way back home.

"Aye," Elrohir agreed, turning to look at the other elf. "That is something."

Another warrior to his right grinned slightly, no mirth visible in his eyes.  
"If we're lucky, they killed a few more humans on their way out. It's not going to even the scores, but it's a start."

The elf next to him whom Elrohir recognised as the youngest member of their troop returned the grin. For someone who hadn't even turned twelve _yéni _yet, it looked very dangerous.  
"Knowing Captain Isál, it will be more than just a few."

Elrohir smiled at them, a dark smile that reminded all of them of his father when he was in a quiet rage, and therefore at his most dangerous.  
"That would _definitely _be something."

He would have said more, but Gasur chose just this moment to make his appearance, his argument with Reod apparently over and won. The brown-haired man came sauntering over to them, that insane smile still on his lips, and one could almost see the jolt that went through the elven warriors. All of them stiffened and straightened even more, and if looks possessed physical force, the human captain would have been blasted off his feet and landed somewhere close to the Anduin.

The man made his way through the lines of his men who were respect- or fearfully making way for him, and finally stopped when he had reached the front rank. He did not step away from his men, being either too clever or too cowardly for that (even though Elrohir knew very well which option he liked to believe), and his grin widened when he set eyes on the bloody, motionless figure of Legolas who was lying on the ground. Elrohir could have reached out and snapped his neck in a single movement – and would dearly have liked to do so, too – but the various weapons which were being pointed at his men and him made him stop in his tracks. Eru be his witness, he wanted to kill this worthless excuse for a human being, but he would help no one if he lost it now.

The captain took a deep breath, clearly preparing to speak, and Elrohir rolled his eyes inwardly and steeled himself. Here it came.

"My colleague and I have been thinking," Gasur began languidly, giving Elrohir a friendly smile that awoke in the elf very unambiguous homicidal urges. The twin bit his lips to stop himself from saying that he very much doubted that, while Reod, standing behind and to the left of Gasur, looked as if he wanted to say that he had not been involved in any of this in the slightest. "And have come to the conclusion that it should be you who … well, goes first. As their leader and everything, it is your duty, wouldn't you agree?"

The elven warriors unconsciously shifted closer together, forming an even tighter front as if daring the guards to make a threatening move towards their lord. Elrohir, however, ignored them, his eyes remaining fixed on Gasur's maniacally grinning face.  
"What would you know of duty, _adan_?"

"Enough to never let it interfere with my personal desires – or agenda," the man answered smoothly. "Right now, however, all three happen to coincide. I want to watch you die, all of you – most of all him, though. It has been my keenest wish for a long time, and to make him witness your deaths is a highly … pleasurable prospect."

Elrohir didn't need to ask who "him" was, and the look in his eyes grew even more frigid.  
"_He_ will not live to watch anybody die if nothing is done," he retorted, fighting to keep his voice even and calm. The hatred he felt for the man in front of him could not be hidden, though, and seemed to permeate every syllable he spoke. "He is bleeding internally as well as externally. If nothing is done, he will die within the next half-hour."

"Oh, but now you exaggerate, _elf_," Gasur smiled beneficially. "Don't forget that I know just how tough your kind is. He won't die that quickly. Your father's advisor didn't, after all."

Elrohir's eyes narrowed into thin, cold, angry slits.  
"Just what is that supposed to mean?"

Gasur grinned back at him, enjoying the worry and fear the elf was trying so hard to hide.  
"What do you think, _elf_?"

It might have gone on like this for a while longer – both Gasur and Elrohir were just warming up, after all – if Reod hadn't finally lost his patience. With a mumbled curse that sounded a lot like "Oh for the love of the _Gods_!" he shouldered a few soldiers aside and stepped next to his colleague, working hard to keep his temper in check. Berating, ridiculing or simply contradicting Gasur in front of his men could be – and more often than not also was – deadly, that was something many men had learned the hard way. 

"We don't have any time to spare, Gasur," he told the other captain in what he hoped was a calm, reasonable voice. "Our lady's orders are quite specific. She wants to see us for a conference in half an hour, so we should hurry." Gasur didn't even look at him, not appearing to be too impressed, and so Reod tossed out the bait he knew the younger man wouldn't be able to resist. "Salir will be there, too."

That certainly got Gasur's attention. If there was someone he hated almost as much as elves, it was Acalith's grey-haired seneschal.  
"Salir?"

"Yes," Reod nodded, suppressing a small smile of satisfaction. He'd known that Gasur wouldn't allow Salir to sit in council with their lady when he was not present. "Yes, he will be. Let's get this over with, Gasur."

Gasur stared at the dark-haired elf a moment longer who returned the look just as darkly, and finally nodded his head reluctantly, in the manner of a child who has been deprived of a particularly enjoyable spectacle.

"Very well, you are right." He turned around, carelessly dismissing Elrohir in a way that made the young elf's blood boil, and nodded at Fosul, his fair-haired lieutenant. The younger man was grinning just like his superior was, leaving not only Elrohir with the impressing that he was in fact just a particularly bad copy of the dark-haired captain. "Get him onto the scaffold. And," he added, seeing the outraged faces of the other elves, "if one of them tries anything, anything at all, kill the blond one."

He had already turned completely and was pushing his way through his men, leaving the guards with the rather thankless task of having to obey his orders. The men didn't move for several seconds, looking from one dark, thunderous elven face to the other, but then they slowly and reluctantly began to shuffle forward, most of them looking as if they would have liked to be anywhere but here. Later Elrohir would not have been able to say who had stared the entire thing, a human who had been reaching for him or an elf who had lashed out at a guard as a kind of precautionary measure, but from one moment to the next the tense scene had been transformed in what could only be called a chaotic mêlée.

Even while he was elbowing a man in the ribs and shoving another one into his companions – by Elbereth's stars, but that felt good! – Elrohir knew that they could not win this fight. They were badly outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, and possessed no weapons. The men, on the other hand, did, and it wouldn't take them long to get tired of this and use them. If he didn't do something, his men would be slaughtered.

"Enough!"

The bellowed command was shouted loudly enough to ensure that it penetrated even the thickest battle-haze, and everybody froze, the elves because they knew just what this particular tone of voice meant (usually a month of night patrols or something similarly boring) and the men because they were used to obeying bellowed commands, especially ones that sounded like this. Elrohir noticed this to his substantial satisfaction, and when he was certain that most combatants were looking at him, he slowly and carefully raised his hands in surrender.

"Enough," he repeated softly in Sindarin, looking at the elven warriors next to him. "This will serve nothing and no one. I will go with them, and you will not resist further."

"My lord!" the youngest elf exclaimed, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

"Quiet!" Elrohir hissed at him, fighting the urge to lash out at the men who were using this particular chance to grab him once more. "Be quiet and listen! As soon as they are distracted, you take the prince and try to get out of here. Do not concern yourself with me; your orders are to get yourself and Prince Legolas to safety. Wait until their attention shifts," he didn't have to say to what, "and then act. If you do it quickly, you should be able to reach the gate to the left of here before anyone can react. Once you are out of the compound, run. Run as fast as you can and do – not – come – back – for – me. Understood?"

The warriors looked back at him, more than one looking more than just a little bit rebellious, and he gave them the _look _even while the men who had taken hold of his arms were pulling him forward.  
"Am I understood?" he repeated coolly.

The other elves bowed their heads reluctantly, looking very much as if he had just asked them to cut off their hair and join an orc horde. Elrohir nodded back at them and gave them a last smile before the men grabbed him more firmly and dragged him away, through the lines of the guards and into the direction of the scaffold. He didn't care what they felt like, he thought to himself, all that mattered was that they obeyed his orders and tried to escape once Gasur and his men were distracted. There was no way all of them would be able to escape, and if he had to die to give his men a chance to get out of here, then that was a small sacrifice.

The elven warriors looked after their lord's son, their faces frozen into expressionless masks that revealed none of their feelings. They obeyed Elrohir's command, though, and made no move to try and attack one of the guards, even though their looks could only have been called fiery. The men, on the other hand, didn't let down their guard, and they watched the elves like proverbial cats the equally proverbial mice. They mumbled amongst themselves, cursing the fates, Gasur and the elven race in general, but the elves tuned them out, not interested in what they might have to say. A soft, almost inaudible voice speaking in Sindarin caught their attention, though, and Fêrdhol turned to Legolas who hadn't moved the entire time but was now looking at them with wide, surprisingly clear blue eyes.

"…not going to … do it, are you?"

The warrior who had expressed his fervent hope that Isál killed a few humans frowned and averted his eyes from Elrohir's figure. The twin had almost reached the wooden construction.  
"Lord Elrohir gave us an order, your Highness. We have no choice."

Legolas would almost have smiled, and only the anguish he could hear in the other elf's voice stopped him. He had led troops into battle, more times than he could count, and he knew everything there was about the necessity to make sacrifices. The pain that was raging in his heart almost rivalled that in his abdomen, and if he'd possessed the strength to do so, he would have wept for Elrohir and his choice, but he understood him. He would have done the same if their positions had been reversed, and he was strangely comforted by the knowledge that Elrond's son would most likely not have to wait for him too long in Namo's Misty Halls of Waiting.

Now all he could do was make sure that his sacrifice was not in vain.

"I know that," he nodded weakly, trying to take a deep, steadying breath. "It is … his right." He took another deep breath, and promptly had to suppress the urge to cough. "You will leave me here."

Fêrdhol arched an eyebrow in what looking like a mixture between faint amusement, surprise and incredulity.  
"Your Highness?"

"You will leave me here," Legolas repeated, using most of his remaining strength to keep his voice strong and steady. "I would only hinder your escape. You cannot hope to make it to the gate, let along through it, if you are burdened with me."

The dark-haired elf looked back at him, pointedly trying not to stare at the already blood-stained bandage that wound around the prince's middle. It was clear that he knew that Legolas was right, but he was a warrior of Imladris and therefore highly unwilling to admit that.  
"Lord Elrohir's orders were very explicit, my lord. We cannot leave you here."

"I am dying anyway," Legolas told him bluntly, wishing with all his heart that the other elf would see reason soon. He didn't think he possessed the strength to remain conscious for much longer. "No, do … do not try to argue. I can … feel it. I will never survive until … until we reach Aberon." He looked at the Noldorin elf, his eyes dark and pleading. "Please. I ask this of you as … as a favour. I do not wish to die … in the k-knowledge that I doomed you and … c-caused my friend to sacrifice himself for n-nothing. Please, l-leave me and … escape. Save E-Estel and take him to Imladris, that is … all I … all I ask."

The warrior looked at him for a long, long moment, grey eyes boring into blue ones. Deep down, he knew that the prince was right, knew that they would most likely not make it out anyway, not even when they were free to act as they needed. Carrying a wounded elf would make the endeavour almost certainly impossible. Fêrdhol looked at the fair-haired elf's pale face and at the red stain that had appeared on the once beige bandage, no more than five minutes after Elrohir had fastened it. The prince's increasing breathlessness was another sign that there was something seriously wrong, and the calm, dispassionate way in which he talked about his condition spoke volumes.

The Noldorin elf hung his head and allowed himself a small, mournful, weary sigh. Prince Legolas would never survive an escape attempt; he would not even live another hour lying still and motionless. He knew it, his men knew it, and the prince knew it. Lord Elrohir must have known it, too, but had simply not wanted to acknowledge it. Not even the mightiest and oldest of their kind were above denial, after all, and he was sure that if Prince Legolas didn't want to die in the knowledge that he had doomed his friend to a meaningless death, Lord Elrohir hadn't wanted to, either.

Hope sprang eternal, indeed, but there was a point of time when you had to wake up and face reality.

"Very well, your Highness," Fêrdhol inclined his head in the end, the pain in his heart even intensifying. "We will do as you say."

A smile spread over the fair-haired prince's face, a bright, glad smile full of relief that almost could have made one forget that he was in fact only a few steps away from Mandos' Halls.  
"Thank you," Legolas whispered. "Varda Elentári … watch over you and … and keep you from harm."

"And over you, your Highness," the other elf retorted, biting back bitter tears of grief, anger and frustration. "We will do our best to find the boy. If he still lives, we will find him and take him back home."

Legolas smiled again.  
"Don't let him … hear you … c-call him that."

The warrior returned the smile, somewhat wanly, but his attention was almost immediately arrested by what was going on close to the scaffold. Elrohir was standing there, proud and tall and with what had to be the most arrogant expression he could summon, staring at Gasur in a way that would have intimidated most sane beings. None of them had heard what the dark-haired elf had said (even though most of them could fathom a guess), but it must have been scathing and memorable, at least judging by the expression of the guards who looked half-petrified and at the same time as if they were trying very hard not to smile.

The captain, however, once again proved that he was not a sane being. With an dangerous sparkle glistening in his eyes that could be seen even from here, he drew back and dealt a blow to the elf's face that very nearly knocked him off his feet and into his guards. Elrohir was momentarily stunned by the force of the savage blow, and the guards seized this opportunity to jerk his hands behind his back and bind them. It took the twin a few moments to shake off the pain and momentary disorientation, and he still hadn't lifted his head when Gasur's hand shot out and tangled in his long, dishevelled hair, pulling his head up.

"You are lucky my lady is in need of our services, _ elf_. Had I just a little more time, I would make you scream and beg me for death!"

"You are repeating yourself, _lyg_," Elrohir told him, looking thoroughly unintimidated. He narrowed his eyes at the man, his gaze cold and merciless. "Don't forget my words. You will die by the hands of one of my kind, that I swear to you by Elbereth's stars, and _then _ we will see who will beg whom for what!"

The second blow – this time one that actually did knock the elven twin off his feet – was as inevitable as the sunrise in the morning, and the smacking sound that could be heard when Gasur's fist connected with Elrohir's face was loud enough to make even a few of the men wince. The elves, however, simply watched it with emotionless faces and dark, angry eyes that would have impressed even the Dark Lord or some of his higher-ranking minions. This time, Gasur didn't wait for Elrohir to get his bearings and merely nodded at Fosul who was standing next to the men who were holding the elf upright.

"Get him in position."

Fêrdhol, who had been watching the exchange with nothing on his face and fury in his heart, forced himself to take his eyes off the scene and gave his men an almost invisible nod, soundlessly telling them to get ready. He hated was his lord was doing, hated it with all his heart and would have loved to switch places with him, but since he couldn't change anything he intended to make sure that his sacrifice was honoured. They would be ready when the time came and give it their best shot, that was the least they could do. He turned to Legolas, giving the prince a nod that was more of a small bow, before he turned back around, firmly intending to offer Elrohir what support he could; he would not turn away from him now. The twin was being dragged up the stairs now, into the direction where an ominously stained wooden block and several men were waiting.

The Noldorin elf steeled himself for what was to come, inwardly praying to every and any Vala he could think of, silently begging them to do something, to save his lord and not allow him to die like this, in this Eru-forsaken town for no reason at all.

When, a moment later, complete and utter chaos broke loose, no one was more surprised than him to find that his prayers had actually been answered.  
**  
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He was getting tired of sneaking around here, he truly was, and if they didn't find something soon, he would probably snap and do something that would seriously hurt someone.

And that someone would, by Eru and all that was holy, _not _be him.

Glorfindel unclenched his jaw long enough to take a deep breath, knowing full well that he was scaring the half-dozen warriors he had taken with him. Not that he wouldn't have liked to take more with him; Elrond had offered him more, far more actually (he was beginning to think that the half-elf didn't trust in his ability to look after himself, the Valar knew why), but he had declined, however reluctantly. He would have felt a lot better with more men at his back, but he also knew that the key to the success of this mission was stealth, not force.

And that was also why he was so ill-tempered. He wanted to hurt someone, badly, not creep through this house like a thief.

The golden-haired elf took another deep breath and another, telling himself to calm down. He knew that he was only a few steps away from losing control over his emotions, not to mention his composure, and he also knew that that would help no one, neither Erestor nor anybody else. He needed to keep a cool, level head if he wanted to help his friend, he needed to control himself like the dark-haired advisor had told him countless times. He would, of course, never admit it to anyone, least of all to Erestor himself, but he always listened when Elrond's chief advisor told him something. There were few elves he knew who possessed a keener mind (not to mention a keener tongue), and had found out a long time ago that Erestor never said anything about which he hadn't thought in length beforehand.

But, Varda's domes above, it was hard to control yourself when all you wanted was to run off and find your friend.

Glorfindel shook his head unwillingly, forcing himself to push his worry, panic and fear into a proverbial corner of his mind and look it behind an equally proverbial door. Elrond had trusted him to find Erestor, had trusted him to find his advisor who was also his friend, and he would not fail the trust the half-elf had put in him. The young one had experienced too many disappointments and catastrophes in his life, from losing his home and his parents to losing his brother and his king and finally his wife, and he would rather kill himself than add to that list that was already long enough for two elven lifetimes.

Then again, the blond elf mused, sneaking around yet another corner, if he killed himself it would probably also depress or at least annoy Elrond. The One knew why, but the half-elf seemed to be fond of him – if he wasn't restricting him to the healing wing, that was.

At the sight of yet another dark corridor, Glorfindel breathed a deep sigh of annoyance and stopped, allowing his men to catch up with him. They did so without making a sound, something that filled him with quite a bit of satisfaction. He had trained them himself, after all, and had picked all of them because of their abilities in stealth. He had made a lot of mistakes lately, no one knew that better than himself, starting with letting Erestor go on that harebrained mission of his with a six-man escort or not protesting more firmly when Elrond had sent Elrohir and the others here, but it seemed that he had, for once, done something right.

The other warriors reached his side, and the one standing closest to him took a step forward and peered around the corner into the dark corridor. A moment later he withdrew his head with a sound of undisguised disgust, unknowingly echoing his superior's earlier sentiments.  
"My lord?"

Glorfindel, correctly interpreting this as a question for orders, did not answer immediately. He found it hard to think, hard to concentrate on anything but the urge to find his friend and possibly break a few bones on the way.  
"Are you sure this is the right way?" he finally asked, keeping his temper firmly in check.

The thus addressed elf did his best not to gulp – elven warriors did, after all, never gulp, not even in the face of insurmountable odds – when he looked at the elf lord's face, and slowly and very carefully lowered his eyes to look at something safe, for example the floor. Anything was better than to look at Lord Glorfindel and see the choking mixture of pain, fear, panic, worry and bright, desperate hope in his eyes that the elf lord was vainly trying to disguise. Someone who didn't know him might even be fooled into thinking that everything was fine, but those who knew him had to take only one look at his almost wild eyes to see that in fact _nothing _was fine.

And, the warrior added to himself, he knew Lord Glorfindel quite well indeed.

"Reasonably sure, my lord," he answered, pretending very hard that he hadn't noticed the way the blond elf's eyes narrowed in displeasure. "Captain Isál…"

"Didn't know where they'd taken him either. I know that," Glorfindel finished the sentence for him, something that awoke in the warrior the very vivid urge to dive for cover. Glorfindel was a fair elf, after all, and always allowed any of his soldiers to express their opinions – within reasonable limits, of course. When he started interrupting you, the best you could do was freeze and become part of the scenery. The very best you could do was run, very fast.

"We could..."

Before the elven warrior could elaborate on just what they could do, one of his comrades who had been peering around the corner drew back as if he had been burnt and quickly turned around to them.  
"Someone is coming!"

It was all the warning any of them needed, and without even having to exchange a look the small group pressed their backs against the wall at their backs, all but holding their breaths. It hadn't been longer than five minutes since they had separated from Elrond, Elladan and the others, but until now it seemed that the main group had not yet acted. Until they made their move and everybody was concentrated on what was happening in the main courtyard, none of them wanted to attract any more attention than absolutely necessary.

To anybody but the most keen-eared elf, the approaching footsteps would have been inaudible, but Glorfindel hadn't picked his companions only for their ability to put up with him when he was in a bad mood – even though thathad also been a reason. The elves next to him tensed, reaching for their weapons, and the golden-haired elf, too, was reaching for the hilt of his sword. He was actually only slightly worried that they might be discovered; the chance to actually hurt and/or maim one of these men here was simply too good to pass up. And if his hand slipped, he miscalculated slightly and killed someone … well, too bad.

The footsteps drew closer and closer, and in the exact moment that the person – guard? soldier? servant? – passed the corner, Glorfindel drew back and brought his sword down in an in fact rather well-calculated blow that was not aimed to kill, but merely to disarm. To his substantial surprise, though, his stroke was blocked, his blade coming into contact with another one, and Glorfindel couldn't help but give a short, rather vicious Quenya curse. This hadn't been supposed to happen!

His surprise deepened when his subsequent manoeuvre was blocked, too, and was quickly replaced by shock when the person he was rather unsuccessfully trying to disarm rounded the corner fully, the sparse light illuminating his figure.  
"Annorathil?" he asked incredulously.

If he had sounded – and probably looked – incredulous, the other elf beat him by lengths. He stopped in mid-motion, green-blue eyes wide and shocked, and didn't even seem to notice that one of the warriors took hold of his shirt and pulled him further down the corridor to hide him from view.

"Lord Glorfindel?" he asked, sounding very much as if Morgoth had just appeared in front of him clad in nothing but a pink loincloth. He seemed to regain some of his control and ability to form complex sentences a moment later. "What … what are you doing here?"

Glorfindel gave him what he thought to be a reassuring smile (but what looked in fact more like an impatient grimace), enjoying the sight of seeing the usually dispassionate elf at a loss for words and, from the looks of it, very confused. It didn't happen often that Annorathil was either, after all.

"It is a long story," he finally answered quickly while he sheathed his sword in a fluid motion. "To make it short, we are here to rescue you, and if you even smile now, you will regret it. Before you ask: We found Commander Meneldir and the others; they are fine, all of them, including your nephew. Lord Elrond is here with more warriors; we met with Captain Isál and he is leading them to the main courtyard where the rest of your group should be. We split up, and are right now looking for Lord Erestor."

Annorathil nodded slowly, the fingers of his right hand relaxing the grip he had on the hilt of the sword he had taken from some unfortunate human. Even though his face remained expressionless, he relaxed minutely when he heard that Meneldir, Ingvaer and the others were safe and well. It was even more remarkable when one took into account what he had just been told nonchalantly.

"I see, my lord," he inclined his head, his usual unshakable composure firmly back in place. "I am trying to do the same. I managed to shake off the humans that were trailing me only a few minutes ago, and all I have been able to find out is that Lord Erestor is not in this part of the building, nor in this part of the cellars." He lowered his eyes. "I am sorry, sir."

Glorfindel accepted his words with a nod of his own, outwardly showing no reaction.  
"Are there any others with you?" he asked, his voice sounding far too calm and level.

"No, my lord," Annorathil shook his head. "None that I know of. I am alone."

"Not anymore," the golden-haired elf retorted curtly. "We can use all the help we can get. And now we know at least that he is not in this part of the building. That is … something."

"Begging your pardon, sir," the elf who had been speaking earlier interjected carefully, "but I think that our best chance is to ask someone."

"Just like that?" another warrior asked, arching an eyebrow incredulously.

"I am sure we will be able to be very … convincing," the first warrior shrugged with a dark, dangerous and very serious glint in his eyes.

"It could attract quite a bit of attention," Annorathil commented thoughtfully. "The guards usually patrol in groups of three or more, and now that the alarm has been raised, there will be even more. It could be a problem if we want one of them to be able to talk. Someone might call for reinforcements before we could stop him."

Glorfindel looked at him, his blue eyes dark and cold.  
"Do you really think I care about that?"

No, he wouldn't care about that, Annorathil nodded to himself, feeling his heart clench in sympathy. Some people had trouble viewing Glorfindel – the slayer of a balrog, the reborn elf who had lived when the world had been young, the legendary warrior whose counsel was respected even by the Wise – as a normal elf, as an elf who could grieve and feel pain and fear. He, however, had never had such problems, perhaps because he wasn't exactly what one would call young, either. He wasn't as old as the golden-haired elf or even Lord Elrond, but he came rather close. He, too, could remember the older days that had been full of darkness and brilliant light, both so intense and all-consuming that it had seemed to fill the entire world. And, more often than not, it had, too.

He knew what his superior was going through, knew that all that interested him now was finding his friend, in whatever condition. He could relate to it only too well, and for a moment he found himself back on the fields before Barad-dûr after everything had been over and only the dead and the carrion birds remained, searching for his missing friend, his shield-brother whom he'd let out of his sight for only a second. It had been a second too long, and even while he was turning over body after body, looking for his friend's red hair, he knew that he was too late and that the other elf was dead. Still, not until he had turned over that last, horribly twisted body and gazed into the wide-open, very dead eyes of his friend, had the hope he had been nursing withered and died.

Annorathil closed his eyes for a second, trying to chase away the dark, blood-coloured images of that terrible day that had taken from him what he had treasured most in all the world. Something inside of him had died that day, had snapped and splintered and broken and left him with the sharp edges stabbing into his heart. He knew what it felt like to lose a friend you loved dearly, as dearly as yourself or more. He would spare anyone this pain, especially an elf he respected as deeply as Lord Glorfindel.

And, he added to himself, the golden-haired elf knew it, too; that was the small sparkle of deep, frightened pain he could see in his eyes. Everybody knew the Lay of Glorfindel's Fall, it was being sung in the Hall of Fire often enough, after all, and everybody knew how Lord Ecthelion, Glorfindel's friend, had died in Gondolin in defence of his king. And he, for one, knew that the memories of Ecthelion's death still haunted the golden-haired elf, and that the underlying sadness that could be seen from time to time in his blue eyes was for the friend he had lost so many ages ago.

Oh yes, the dark-haired elf mused sadly, Lord Glorfindel knew that pain, knew it well enough to be terrified of it.

"If you'll allow me, my lord," he spoke up again. "I know a place where we can find a guard we can … persuade to help us." Glorfindel turned to look at him, interest joining the swirling maelstrom of emotions in his eyes, and he elaborated. "There is a guard post no more than a few hundred yards down this corridor. I gave them a wide berth because I didn't want to attract their attention, but now…"

"How many guards?" Glorfindel interrupted him curtly.

"Five, my lord."

"That should do," the golden-haired elf nodded, more to himself than to anybody else. He raised his head again, fixing his warriors with a stern look. "Just remember: I want one of them alive and able to talk. I don't care what happens to the rest." The other elves nodded, having needed only to look at his expression to know that he was completely serious, and Glorfindel turned back to Annorathil, satisfied. "Lead the way, then. This shouldn't be a problem."

It wasn't.

Annorathil needed only a few minutes to lead them through the dark, deserted corridors to the guard post. Glorfindel and the other elves, on the other hand, needed only a few seconds to deal with the soldiers, and so it came that, not even five minutes later, there were four guards lying on the ground, their weapons haphazardly strewn about their still bodies. The fifth man was being pressed against the wall, held upright by Glorfindel's hand that was wrapped around his throat and only barely conscious.

Annorathil watched the man for a few seconds, noting with interest how his face turned first red, then white and then a faintly bluish colour, before he took a step forward and cleared his throat meaningfully. Glorfindel's head shot around, his eyes fixing him with a powerful, dark and very annoyed look.  
"What?" the blond elf demanded to know.

"You might want to let him take a breath, my lord," Annorathil told him calmly. "I doubt that he will be able to answer any questions like this."

Glorfindel turned back to the choking man and gave him an assessing look.  
"Oh. Yes, maybe."

He opened his fist and allowed the man to drop to the ground. The soldier landed on the stone tiles in an untidy heap and with a resounding thud, wheezing sounds emanating from his throat as he tried to suck enough air into his lungs. The elves watched him dispassionately, only faint disgust visible on their faces, and after a minute or so the man was able to lift his head and gave them a half-fearful, half-angry stare out of blood-shot eyes.

"What…" he interrupted himself to cough weakly, "What do you want?"

Most of the elven warriors looked at each other in faint surprise and/or raised amused eyebrows. The man had to possess more temerity than it had seemed; most humans weren't even able to formulate simple sentences when Lord Glorfindel looked at them like this.

Glorfindel, however, merely reached out and grasped the man by the arm, hauling him roughly to his feet and pressing him against the wall once again. As soon as the guard was standing, he withdrew his hand, looking as if he had just touched something revolting.

"A simple answer to a simple question, human," he retorted, spearing him with a fair reproduction of his lord's _look_. "Where is Erestor?"

The man blinked dumbly.  
"Who?"

Glorfindel's face darkened like the sky just before a storm, and Annorathil took a step forward again before it could come to bloodshed. After all, if Lord Glorfindel killed this one, they would have to find another, and the Valar alone knew how long that would take.  
"The elf you captured about two weeks ago. The elf lord's advisor? He was brought to a new cell a few days ago."

The man clamped his lips tightly together and lowered his gaze, trying to escape Glorfindel's piercing eyes. It was clear that he knew what they were talking about, and equally clear that he had been ordered not to tell anybody about what he knew. Considering that he had met this Gasur person and seen some of his "handiwork", Annorathil could not really blame him.  
"I don't know."

Glorfindel leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, a truly dangerous air emanating from him.  
"Think hard, human. Very hard."

The soldier raised his eyes again and stared at the fair face above his and the terrible light in the elf's eyes, a calculating expression spreading over his face.  
"What do I get if I answer your question?"

Outrage spread over the faces of the elven warriors behind Glorfindel, outrage at this man's brazen, oh-so-very-human impertinence, but the elf lord merely cocked his head slightly to the side, giving the man a merciless, uncompromising look.  
"You do not die."

The answer was spoken in a soft, cool tone of voice that didn't even sound overly menacing, but it was enough to send a shiver down the man's back. This elf wasn't threatening him; he was merely stating a fact, using the exact same voice he would have used to state that rain was wet. If he did not tell him what he wanted to know, he _would _kill him, most likely smiling joyfully, about that the guard had no doubts at all.

"All right," the man said tiredly, having the very bad feeling that he was just signing his own death sentence. If the captain ever heard about this – and he would, he always heard about everything – he was dead. "I will take you to him."

"You better should," Glorfindel all but growled, grasping his arm and turning him around, into the direction from which they had come. "Ilúvatar, you better should."

The warriors began to spread out, two of them taking point while two more waited for the others to pass them to serve as a rearguard, all of them moving with the smooth swiftness of the professionals they were. The hadn't taken more than a few dozen steps, though, when a sudden roaring sound could be heard, a sound that the elves quickly identified as weapons clashing against each other, running feet and voices raised in shouts of pain and fear.

Glorfindel didn't need to contemplate long what was happening; it seemed that Elrond had made his move, wherever he was. Their presence was no longer a secret, even though he hoped that the attention of most men would be fixed on Elrond's far larger force – that had been the plan, after all. And that, he concluded almost happily, meant that stealth was no longer necessary.

"Move!" he ordered, shoving the guard forward. He turned to his warriors, gesturing them to observe only the most necessary precautions. "They won't get any more distracted than this. Move!"

He was right, of course. They needed to walk through another set of long, dark corridors, even though they weren't quite as deserted anymore. Before they reached the flight of stairs that led to yet another part of the cellars, they ran into several smaller or larger groups of guards, all hastening into the same direction with looks of panic and fear on their faces. A few of them stopped to engage them (and were quickly taught that that had been the wrong decision), but most of them were far too busy running and dodging other people to pay them any real attention at all.

They managed to reach the stairs without any mayor problems, and within seconds they found themselves standing in a dark, dank hallway. The walls were made of thick, damp stone as was the floor, and even the soft sounds of their breathing were amplified and echoed in their ears in a frightening, distorted manner. Annorathil unsuccessfully tried to suppress a small shiver that raced up his arms and down his spine. This part of the cellars looked even worse than the – already rather inhospitable – part into which Lord Elrohir, the others and he had been thrown not too long ago.

Without having to be told, the man began to lead them down the corridor before he took the first passage to their right. Apparently Lord Glorfindel's rather impressive _look _of impending doom and pain was getting even to him, Annorathil noted with certain amusement. All traces of mirth disappeared from his face when he saw the golden-haired elf's anxious eyes and the fear he could no longer contain. He could understand that only too well; seeing this dark cellar that echoed hopelessness so clearly that he was surprised that they couldn't hear it somehow served to bring their situation – and the condition Lord Erestor would most likely be in – into clearer, more merciless focus.

The elves trailed after their unwilling guide, following him through a maze of twisting, cold corridors, and just when Annorathil was seriously wondering if the man was trying to fool them (in which case he was fully willing and prepared to snap his neck), the guard stopped and turned around to them, pointing at the end of the corridor that made a sharp turn to the left, almost at a right angle.

"He's in the cell down there," he told them. "There are two guards there, or at least there should be."

Glorfindel gave him a long, searching look, and quickly came to the conclusion that the man wasn't lying. All temerity seemed to have drained out of him, either because of their current surroundings or because he was realising just how dire his situation was. Glorfindel, however, didn't care either way. He nodded at one of his men to take care of the guard which the elf did, pulling him backwards and out of the way. A moment later he was striding down the corridor, unsheathing his sword with a deliberate, cold-blooded movement that made Annorathil resolve never truly to enrage him.

The blond elf disappeared around the corner, and when Annorathil and the others joined him a moment later, everything was already over. There had indeed been two guards posted left and right of a thick wooden door, just like the man had told them. Now, however, the two humans were lying motionlessly on the floor, and no one needed to bend down and check their pulse to see that they were, in fact, dead. One of them hadn't even had time to draw his weapon, something that surprised none of the elves. Lord Glorfindel's reputation had good reasons, after all.

The elf in question was just straightening back up, his blood-stained sword in his left hand and an expression of furious frustration on his face.  
"They don't have the keys, Morgoth take it all!" he swore viciously. He turned around, staring at the wooden door with dark, hateful eyes and clearly wondering if they would be able to break it down. "Why wouldn't they have the keys?" he repeated almost forlornly.

The elven warriors simply stared at him and then lowered their eyes, unable to think of anything they could say that wouldn't sound stupid, but Glorfindel didn't even seem to notice that they were there. Without even looking at them, he thrust his sword into its sheath, not even bothering to try and wipe it clean, and fumbled in his pockets until he found what he had been looking for, namely a small, but long and thin piece of metal with a carefully curved tip.

The golden-haired elf's fingers closed around it like a drowning man might cling to a piece of wood, and a moment later he had whirled around to the door, smoothly stepping over a guard's arm to come to stand in front of it. Another moment later he had pushed it into the lock with a movement that was far too controlled and calm, and therefore was in fact neither.

After half a minute Annorathil couldn't watch it anymore, and he quickly gave the elves around him a look that told them that they should try and become part of the scenery. All he got in response was a set of solemn nods; he was the oldest and most experienced here, after all, and they all knew his reputation. He wasn't someone to make a big fuss over nothing, and if he told you to do something, even the junior lieutenants and a fair share of the captains jumped to do his bidding, because he was usually right.

With a last look over his shoulder to make sure that the others would indeed hang back and let him handle this, the dark-haired elf stepped up to the elf lord who was feverishly trying to open the lock. Consciously moving slowly and therefore giving Glorfindel the time to acknowledge his presence, he reached out and grasped the other elf's hand, gently taking the picklock from him.

"Let me do this, my lord," he said softly, looking at him seriously and making sure that the other could see the understanding in his eyes. "I will have it open in less than two minutes, I promise you."

Glorfindel stared at him but did not say or do anything to stop him, and so Annorathil took over without another word, inserting the probe into the lock once more and pressing his ear against the wooden door to be able to listen more closely. A moment later he had forgotten all about his surroundings; all that mattered were soft, clicking noises of the tumblers that resisted his attempts to lift them and push them to the side.

Even though this lock was quite a bit trickier than the one he had picked earlier today, he stayed true to his word, and in under a minute and a half the lock opened with a small, thoroughly satisfying click. Annorathil slowly and carefully withdrew the picklock and stepped back, respectfully giving Glorfindel some more time and space. The blond elf, however, did not move at first, his wide, suddenly rather blank eyes staring at the dark, still closed door.

The hardest thing about courage, Annorathil knew, was that, more often than not, it went completely unsung and unnoticed. Often it did not even matter; a man could do the hardest thing in the world for him and it wouldn't change anything at all in the grand scheme of things. For the greatest acts of them all, there were no stories and no songs, no ripples in history and no big consequences. A man could fight his worst foe or face his greatest fear, he could do the worst, the hardest thing he would ever do, and no one would ever know just how much it had cost him. 

True courage could mean all these things and more – or it could simply mean to push open a door and face the reality within.

Glorfindel stared at the dark woodfor a heartbeat or two longer, his face white and emotionless. None of the warriors behind him moved as they, too, looked at the cell, feeling the fear and pain and despair that emanated from the golden-haired elf's body as clearly as if it had been written on his ramrod-straight back.

The spell was broken a moment later, when Glorfindel reached out with a calm, steady hand and gently opened the door.

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_pen-neth (S.) - young one  
Mae govannen, Isál (S.) - Well met, Isál  
talan (S.) - flet, wooden platform in the trees  
mellon iaur (S.) - old friend  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
yéni (Q., pl. of yén) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
adan (S.) - human, man  
lyg (S.) - snake  
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Yup, I AM evil. Don't tell me. But, people, you have to admit that there was no way I could have fitted the reunion into this chapter. I actually thought about seperating this into two parts, but I thought that giving you a "slightly" longer chapter was the least I could do after keeping you waiting for so long. See? I try to be not TOO mean. I promise you that it WILL be in the next chapter though, so back off, you Erestor and/or Glorfindel fans over there! Don't think I haven't seen you trying to sneak up on me! •shakes head• Sheesh, people nowadays... The story is drawing to a close now, so we'll have lots of action, death, doom, pain, blood and all that in the next chapter, too, and the baddies finally get what they so rightly deserve. Yes, that's another promise. If you don't know what to give me for Christmas, I would suggest a nice little review. Trust me, I'd be delighted! •g•

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**Additional A/N:**

Okay, I have a question. What would you guys prefer me to do, keep on sending a general review response email like the last few times or switch to FF-net's new system? I could use it to reply to each review individually, even though I have the feeling that that would mean more work. Be that as it may, I am open to suggestions. I haven't tried the new system yet, though; is it working? You never know here...

I also have to apologise for not reponding to reviews this time, in either way. I am really, really sorry about that, but editing this monster chapter took me about half a day and I really don't have time to write the review responses right now. I regret this, because I greatly enjoy all your reviews, I really do. Please forgive me for that.

Thank you all for you understanding and your tremendous patience, and have a very Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays! 


	35. Culmination

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Hey, everybody, here I am again. And before I start making excuses again, I will take a moment to beg your forgiveness.**

**•takes moment•**

**I got a review today that, even though it wasn't the most pleasurable one to read, was definitely true, or at least large parts of it. I have been promising to update and then haven't done it, something that annoys the heck out of me when I read stories, so I understand how frustrating that is for you. I had never planned to write this story while studying abroad; I had wanted to finish it before I left. That didn't really work out because of various reasons, mainly because I changed my major and had to take a really large set of exams with little time to prepare.**

**Well, if wishes were horses and so on. Plain and simple fact is that life here is a lot more hectic, and I simply DO a lot more stuff. Have you ever tried living with five other people? Let's just say that just sitting down an evening and writing and not going out is not the easiest thing. This is my Erasmus year, after all, so I have a reputation to uphold! Also, things that wouldn't take me that long at home, for example writing papers or preparing for exams, is taking me so much longer. I know that, of course, especially since my Spanish is still far away from anything that could be called proficient, but I keep underestimating it. I think it will take me two days or so, and it ends up taking me four.**

**I don't want to make excuses, though. I have made promises that I couldn't keep, and for that I am truly sorry. I understand if some of you are angry and disappointed. I will try not to promise anything in the future, and just want to say that I want to update at least once a month. There are not so many chapters left, so that shouldn't take too long. I also want thank the person who wrote me that review (and be it only to give me a swift kick in the butt I so definitely needed!), even though I would of course prefer something with an email adress so I can respond, private emails work well for that, too. Then again, that's up to everybody, so I understand.**

**Enough of this, here is the next bit I have to get back to studying for my exams (in Spanish, what a horror!), brought to you by my favourite computer specialist who managed to salvage my hard drive, more or less, that is. •hugs him• As I said, I had to split the "huge-battle chapter" into two, just like in TWIN, mainly because the characters just wouldn't shut up. They hate me, I know they do.**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 35

There had been several times in his life when Annorathil had failed to see the wisdom of the choices of the One, or at least doubted the intentions of the Valar. He believed in them, of course – he had seen the Host of the Ainur himself, after all, when they had come to their aid at the end of the First Age.

No, he believed in Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar – it was very hard not to believe in them, especially as an elf in this world, no matter on which side of the Great Sea you were. What he sometimes found hard to accept, in the cold, dark hours of the night when he was alone and there was no one else around, was Ilúvatar's will, or the logic behind his decisions, if you wanted. Many a time had he doubted both, with darkness and with pain and with fear battering against his soul like a ram against a wooden gate.

When half his family had been slaughtered by orcs before the War of Wrath, when the second home he had built himself in Eregion had been destroyed, when his wife had died during their flight to Rivendell, when his best friend had fallen before the Black Tower – oh yes, there had been many, many times when he had cursed life's cruelty and had questioned the will of the One. It was easy to lose hope when you were surrounded by nothing but death, destruction and despair and give in to hatred that filled your heart with deceiving life and your limbs with strength, and he had done both more often than he wanted to admit even to himself.

He had seen much and lived through much, and had learned to deal with the aftermath of whatever fate threw at him, or had at least learned to deal with it as well as possible. He had come to realise that there was nothing he or, for that matter, anybody else could do except do his best to accept what had happened, no matter how hard it might be.

And, Annorathil added mentally, it could be very hard indeed. He would never forget the heart-rending pain that had shot through the very core of his being when he had to admit to himself that he would never see those he loved again, or at least not on this side of the Sundering Seas. The acceptance that he was bereft of his loved one's company, of his friend's jokes or his wife's gentle smile, had been bought by the death of parts of his soul, truth to be told. He often thought that, with them, the better and more cheerful parts of him had died, and at times he grieved for this as much as he grieved for them.

Annorathil had indeed more than enough experience with matters such as these, more than he had ever wanted to have. He had been on enough battlefields and around enough tragedies to know when darkness and doom were approaching, and right now every single instinct he possessed tingled as if fire had set his skin aflame. The presence of a Nazgûl, with or without winged steed, could not have made a bigger impression on him than the straightening of Lord Glorfindel's already ramrod-straight shoulders did.

_He _might have come to realise that acceptance of whatever the One decreed to be your fate was his only viable option, but that didn't mean that Lord Glorfindel had, too. The Valar knew that the other elf had seen enough death and been through enough catastrophes himself, but somehow Annorathil doubted that he would quietly duck his head and accept what had happened.

Especially, the dark-haired elf added almost tiredly, if the matter included Lord Erestor.

He gave the tall, still figure of the elf standing in front of him a quick look. Lord Glorfindel was standing in the doorway, not having moved even an inch since he had opened the door no more than a few moments ago, and for a second Annorathil thought that the older elf had sunken into some sort of shock. After all he had seen here, it would not surprise him in the slightest; if there was one thing that was apparently not to be contested, it was that Acalith's captain was as vicious and cruel as he was insane.

Just when Annorathil was about to take a step forward, either to see what Lord Glorfindel was staring at or to offer him his support, the golden-haired elf took a quick, shallow breath that was more a gasping for air than anything else. A moment later he was gone, rushing into the darkness that lay beyond the doorway, his long, blond hair and dark cloak streaming after him.

Driven to equal parts by concern, fear and dread, Annorathil took a step forward and then another, having to force his reluctant legs to comply with his wishes. He had seen enough blood and enough death, a small, but very firm voice inside his head ranted, enough pain and fear and despair. He did not want to see this, _knew _that he did not want to see it, but a sense of obligation and duty spurred him on. No matter what waited in the dark room, it was clear that at least Lord Glorfindel would need all the support he could get.

And, the small voice added practically, sounding awfully tired and bereft of any and all illusions, and someone would have to take care of getting both of them out of the room, in whatever condition.

It took Annorathil's eyes a few moments to grow accustomed to the darkness, and while he was usually annoyed by having to wait for something like that, this time he was almost grateful for the small respite it granted him. Slowly, however, his surroundings swam into focus, and for a single, heart-stopping moment he forgot to breathe. Feeling light-headed either by the small, insignificant fact that, against some more common human beliefs, elves _did _need oxygen to survive or maybe because of sheer shock, he calmly turned around and gave the elven warriors who had wisely hung back until now a cool look.

"Get a healer in here," he ordered in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. He quickly shook his head as one of them stepped forward, a young elf whom he recognised as the son of one of the master healers. Lord Glorfindel would have chosen him in order not to endanger a real healer in what was, after all, supposed to be a quick, stealthy operation, he guessed. Annorathil shivered inwardly. Unless the young one's father had taught him everything he knew and more – and he rather doubted it – he would not be able to help.

"No, _pen-neth_," he told the younger elf seriously and shook his head again. "There is nothing you can do." He turned back to the others and gave the highest-ranking elf a firm look that even Fëanor would have found hard to ignore. "You should leave a rearguard at the end of the corridor. If you hurry and don't draw any attention to yourself, you should be able to get back to the garden without too much trouble. Please, sir," he told the lieutenant, "make haste."

The elf looked back at him, saw the fear lurking in the other elf's usually so emotionless eyes and nodded quickly. He knew when he was being dismissed (by someone below his own rank at that!) and besides, Annorathil was right as usual. They had left the healers and a few guards in the gardens where they had parted from Lord Elrond and the rest of their group; this way they stayed out of danger (and out of the way) and would be able to make their escape, if worse came to worst.

Then again, the elf told himself darkly and looked at Annorathil once more, it apparently already had. He respected Lord Glorfindel and Lord Elrond's chief advisor as much as the next elf, Valar, he idolised the golden-haired elf (there were not many of Imladris' younger warriors who did not), and if there was something he did not want to see, it was this.

"Very well," he inclined his head, turned around and began to issue a stream of orders. Annorathil was grateful that he did not ask questions he felt he had no right to answer, nor did he want to put into words what he had seen. "We will be back as soon as possible," the lieutenant assured him, and a moment later he and the rest of the warriors were gone, only two of them remaining behind as guards, looking highly uncomfortable.

Annorathil gave them a look that clearly suggested they become part of the scenery before he turned back around, but he hesitated to take the two steps that would take him over the threshold and into the cell. A part of that reluctance was deep-instilled respect which he harboured for both of the elves within, but another part was fear, plain and simple. He dreaded what he would find, his heart aching with the memory of similar situations he'd been in, and he could not bring himself to take a single step.

He wouldn't have had to worry about Glorfindel in any way, though. The elf lord wouldn't have noticed his presence, and even the appearance of Manwë and Varda and the other higher-ranking Valar would have impressed him little. It had taken him several moments to really understand what he was seeing, as if his brain could or would not accept what his eyes were telling it. It took him even longer to force himself to break the silent, deathly stillness that lay over the dark, dirty cell, and even while was forcing himself to move, urgency and ever-growing panic tearing at his self-control, he had to battle the unreasonable feeling that to move would mean to change something, something important. He knew that it was a stupid thought, a dangerous one even, but he could not help it anymore than he could stop hoping against hope that everything would be well, that he was only living a particularly bad dream. His brain was numb, still refusing to fully accept what he was seeing, and even if he had been aware of this, he probably wouldn't have wanted to shrug it off.

There were things one did not want to think about, after all.

There were many things one could say about Glorfindel, but what no one had ever said was that he hid from reality or only accepted what he wanted to be true. Even while a part of him was crying out in pain, fervently trying to deny what his eyes were seeing, he had crossed the small, dark space and stopped in front of the utterly motionless, impossibly small-looking figure chained to the wall. He was not even realising that he was kneeling down next to it, his body moving on its own account, all his thoughts concentrated on the still body in front of him.

If he had been in a calmer – a far calmer – state of mind, he would have noticed how utterly horrible the chained being looked. It seemed that he had been wearing clothes of a dark grey or black colour once, but it was hard to tell with any amount of certainty, since only shreds of them remained, hanging loosely on his frame in dirty tatters. Through the ruined clothing, Glorfindel could see far too pale skin that looked almost as white as freshly fallen snow, even though that, too, was hard to see, since most of the exposed flesh seemed to be either bruised, cut or otherwise damaged.

Glorfindel knew he should be doing something, but he simply couldn't figure out what, his mind numb and empty. All he could do was stare at the figure … oh, whom was he trying to kid, he asked himself angrily with the mental equivalent to a slap to the back of his head. All he could do was stare at Erestor, at his best friend in Rivendell after Elrond, and at the way his head hung forward limply, his long dark hair obscuring his features and hiding them from his eyes. The other elf's body was still, so completely still and motionless that it sent a bright flare of panic through Glorfindel's heart and mind.

Manwë Súlimo be his witness, but he had seen corpses that had looked livelier. Lots of them.

If he had thought that opening the door had been hard, he was being shown that it had been nothing in comparison to this. Actually reaching out and touching Elrond's motionless councillor was the hardest thing he had done in a long time, maybe even the hardest thing since he had heeded the orders the daughter of his king had given him and had left his burning home behind, where his liege and best friend lay dead and his people were still dying by the hundreds.

To him, it seemed that it took ages until the slightly trembling fingers of his right hand touched the other elf's chin, and the coldness of his skin that travelled up his arm and into his heart sent a chill down his back. Firmly pushing all emotions to the side and doing his best to ignore the dread that was threatening to envelop him whole, Glorfindel decided that enough was enough. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and slowly and gently curled his fingers around Erestor's jaw, lifting his head.

Time seemed to slow down to a mere trickle, and Glorfindel could virtually feel how his heart stopped for a moment. Erestor looked … dead, there was no better word for it. His face was bruised and swollen, some of the injuries looking older, at least a week old, while others seemed to have been inflicted only recently. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the surrounding tissue having taken on all imaginable colours from yellow to almost black, and there was a burn mark on his other cheek, red and painful-looking. It didn't look too recent, probably already older than a day or two, but it hadn't even begun to heal, a testament to the constant abuse the elf must have suffered and that had finally weakened his body to a point where it didn't even bother to try and heal such comparably minor injuries and concentrated all its strength on keeping more vital systems and body functions going.

The thing that frightened Glorfindel most, however, more than the stillness of his body or the pallor of his face, was the fact that Erestor's eyes were closed. The golden-haired elf couldn't even remember the last time he had seen the younger elf with his eyes closed – if ever, that was – and the sight looked even more unnatural to him because of the stark contrast between the dark lashes and the almost ghost-white skin on which they rested.

Acting on pure instinct, Glorfindel's long fingers travelled down his friend's chin until they came to rest on the hollow of his throat. The blond elf had just enough time to notice that the flesh of the other elf's neck and throat was just as bruised as the rest of him before his attention was arrested by the feeling of cold skin against his fingertips. For the first few moments, he couldn't feel anything, nothing that felt even remotely like a heartbeat, and Glorfindel could almost feel how the hope that had kept him going these past days withered and died in his breast.

Biting back a sob and almost growling low in his throat, Glorfindel pressed his fingers down a little harder, unwilling to give up now, when he was so close. Erestor wouldn't _dare _die on him now, wouldn't dare to leave him bereft and grieving once more, wouldn't dare to simply give up and journey to Namo's Halls now, when help and rescue were at hand…

Finally, when even the more optimistic parts of him were about ready to give up, his trembling fingers detected something, a weak, thready pulse that even his keen elven senses would almost have missed. Relief so strong that it nearly made him dizzy went through him, and Glorfindel's shoulders sagged slightly while he released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Erestor was alive, barely so maybe, but _alive_.

"O Erestor," Glorfindel sighed almost inaudibly, giddy relief still pulsing through him while he cupped the unresponsive elf's face with one hand and prepared to search for more injuries with the other. "Whatever have you got yourself into, you arrogant Noldo?"

The dark-haired elf did not answer, of course, not that Glorfindel would have expected him to. Unconscious people did not tend to talk to other people, no matter how much said other people might want them to, that was something even he knew. Careful not to let go of his friend's chin, as if he was afraid that the other elf would yet leave him if he broke the connection he had established by reaching out to him, Glorfindel began to assess the still body for other, possibly hidden injuries. He did not have to search long. Cold, all-consuming fury grew inside of him, but, this time, Glorfindel didn't even try to push it down and to the side. He wanted that fury, needed it, even, needed it to lend him strength and determination to keep his promises to Elrond, the one concerning their friend and the one concerning the men who were responsible for all this.

His fury grew even more while he mentally catalogued the dark-haired elf's injuries. Long cuts on his torso, some of them shallower, but most of them so deep that they would need a lot of stitches. A swollen left ankle that looked very, very broken, and a left hand where he couldn't find a single undamaged joint, all of the finger broken so badly that they were almost unrecognisable as elven appendages. Burn marks all over his torso and arms, judging by the deep bruises on his torso at least two broken or badly cracked ribs, a broken right forearm and so many cuts and bruises that he couldn't even begin to count them. There were also some spots on his arms that were raw and red, still seeping blood and other unsavoury substances, and that almost looked as if … as if the skin had been … well, peeled off.

Glorfindel stopped that train of thought right then and there, feeling how the fury grew more and more and began to border on murderous. He did not want to think about it, mustn't think about it, or he would lose what was still left of his self-control. Forcing down the hatred and rage that bubbled inside of him, he returned his attention to Erestor, now frantically beginning to enumerate what needed to be done.

Numerous broken bones, a very badly broken, no, maimed hand, burns, bruises, big and small cuts, probable starvation and dehydration, possibly more wounds he had not detected yet… Glorfindel's thoughts trailed off into silence, dread filling him anew. If they'd reached Erestor's side sooner, if he hadn't been so weakened, it would have looked better. Now, however… Glorfindel swallowed thickly and forced himself to continue. Now, however, Erestor was clearly one step away from leaving this world. He needed all the help he could get, and which he could not offer him. He needed Elrond. He needed a miracle.

Glorfindel forced himself not to think about that and returned his attention to the unconscious elf in front of him, for the umpteenth swearing to himself that he would kill this Gasur person, no matter what it took and whom he would have to kill to find him. For doing … this … to anybody, he deserved death; for doing this to Erestor, he deserved a slow, painful and very, very drawn-out death. And he would make sure the man got what he deserved, too, with elation in his heart and a smile on his lips.

Knowing that there was really nothing he could do until a healer arrived did not sit well with him; if there was one thing Glorfindel could not stand, it was helplessness. He quickly shrugged out of his thick, warm cloak and covered the motionless elf with it as best as he could, fear once again rushing through him when he touched his exposed, far too cold flesh. He was no healer, but even he knew that an elf should not feel that cold, and that it could mean nothing good when he did. The blond elf's attempts were hindered by the thick, crude chains that bound the other elf to the wall, being so short that he could barely sit down and was hanging more than sitting.

His fury increased even more when he looked at the metal chains and the way they enclosed Erestor's slender wrists. They somehow only served to draw his attention to the mangled left hand, and sorrow and fear joined his anger. Erestor was an advisor, a scholar and a man of the written word, someone for whom his hands were as important as for an artist. He knew what it would do to the dark-haired elf if he should be crippled, if he should lose the use of his hand completely or only partially. Valar, he knew what it would do to _him_.

'But for that he has to survive in the first place, doesn't he?' a small voice told him darkly, bringing him back to what was truly important. What would happen would happen, and there was nothing he could do now to change anything. He was, after all, no healer, and he was reasonably certain that he would make everything only worse if he were to try and straighten the bones now. What was important was that Erestor survived; he would help him deal with whatever consequences there were later.

That didn't mean that he was forgetting this particular detail, this very deliberate act of cruelty. He would kill Gasur, yes, but now he'd make very sure to pick a thoroughly agonising method of sending him to the next world.

Still glaring at the chains and not even bothering to turn around, Glorfindel spoke up, his voice pressed and carefully emotionless.  
"Get him out of these chains. Now."

There was only one person he could have been speaking to, and behind him Annorathil took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself, and carefully stepped over the threshold and into the room. He carefully avoided looking Lord Glorfindel in the eye (he knew that the paralysing mixture of fear, pain and more fear would still be there, and he had absolutely no desire to actually see it if he did not have to), avoided giving the dark cell a closer look, avoided looking at Lord Erestor more closely, and finally told himself to stop it. Not looking at something did not make it less true, something he knew only too well, and he would dishonour both himself and the two other elves in the cell if he tried to pretend that nothing was wrong.

Withdrawing the pin he had used to open the door mere minutes ago – by the Valar, but it felt like an eternity! – Annorathil knelt down next to Lord Glorfindel, his eyes fixed on the lock of the chains. It wouldn't be a problem, even though he was more than a little relieved that Lord Erestor was actually unconscious. The unconscious elf's hands were hanging somewhere at the level of his shoulders, the short chains connecting the heavy shackles to a metal ring about five or six feet above the floor, and Annorathil knew from rather painful experience that it would hurt him a lot once the manacles were opened and the normal blood flow was re-established.

He was about to get to work, but he didn't even need to try and insert the picklock to know that the angle was less than perfect. Annorathil hesitated, giving Lord Glorfindel who was unknowingly blocking his way a quick look. The golden-haired elf lord seemed oblivious to his presence, his attention riveted on his friend's still form and one of his hands still cupping his bruised face, as if he was afraid that the other elf might disappear if he let go of him. Annorathil gulped silently. He really had not wish to draw the older elf's attention to himself – judging by the dark, angry aura surrounding the other's tall figure, he just might find himself missing several limbs if he did – but, as so often in his life, what he wanted and what he had to do seemed to be mutually exclusive.

"Excuse me, my lord," he finally said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the lock. "But I must ask you to move. I need some more space. I promise I will work as quickly as I can."

Glorfindel turned half around and gave him a long, assessing look that Annorathil, who had more than enough experience with glares, found exceedingly hard to bear. To his substantial relief, however, the golden-haired elf merely inclined his head fractionally a moment later and shifted to the side to give him more space. Employing a gentleness that was rather at odds with the anger that was easily visible in the elf lord's stance and the blood that stained quite a large percentage of his clothes (none of it his own), Glorfindel reached out and drew his unconscious friend into his arms, moving backwards until his back touched the wall.

It was not easily done and made even harder by the restricting chains, but somehow the blond elf managed to do it without jostling the advisor overly much. Annorathil waited until the older elf had wrapped the coat more firmly around Erestor's shoulders and had settled down somewhat before he inserted the small piece of metal into the lock and began to feel around for the tumblers. The design of the lock itself was simple enough, that much was true, but the awkward position and his desire not to touch the manacles more than absolutely necessary in order not to hurt Lord Elrond's chief advisor made it a lot harder.

The dark-haired elf's forehead creased into a frown as he concentrated harder, and a moment later he would almost have yelped when he miscalculated the angle which he would have to employ, causing the picklock to slide out of the lock. The pointed probe slid up the metal manacle, leaving a small grove in the iron, and, to his horror, pricked the councillor forearm just above the wrist. Annorathil thought his heart would stop when Lord Glorfindel slowly and very deliberately turned his head and stared at him in a way that made him heartily glad that there was absolutely no way of confusing this accident with him trying to deliberately harm the dark-haired advisor.

"I am sorry, my lord," he said quickly, bowing his head and re-inserting the picklock.

Glorfindel was still staring at him, disapproval and some other emotion Annorathil could not identify rolling off him in waves.  
"You need not tell _me _that," the elf lord told him curtly.

Annorathil was already opening his mouth to repeat his earlier words, but quickly closed it again without having said anything. He had the nasty suspicion that Lord Glorfindel might take it as a sign of insolence, and the very, very last thing he wanted to do right now was appear insolent. His personal theory was that that was in fact what had started the whole balrog business: The demon had refused to show Lord Glorfindel the respect he was due, something that Annorathil could have told him was a breathtakingly stupid idea.

He was still trying to come up with an appropriate and, more importantly, safe response, most of his senses still concentrated on the way his picklock pushed against the tumblers inside the lock, when the wrist the manacle encircled moved slightly, much to his surprise. For a moment, he thought that he was imagining things, but then a soft sound could be heard, sounding like a mixture between a moan and a whimper. Annorathil did not have to raise his head to meet his superior's dismayed gaze and concentrated harder on the lock. Why o why did Lord Erestor have to pick this moment to regain consciousness?

The elf in question began to move slightly now that he was getting closer and closer to full consciousness, perhaps prompted by the repeated tugging on his chains that were sadly unavoidable. Lines of pain and fear and something that might even have been panic began to appear on his bruised face, and another soft moan could be heard. Glorfindel glared at Annorathil again, more in order to do something than because he was truly angry with him, before he returned his attention to his waking friend. He could almost not believe how deeply his Erestor's soft sounds of distress affected him; the other elf was a deeply private and very proud person, and to get him to admit that he was in pain was close to impossible.

"Shhh, Erestor," he whispered in his most reassuring tone of voice, tugging the cloak tighter around the other's shoulder in a gesture of odd helplessness. "Shhh, don't move. Everything will be well. We are here now; we found you. Just rest, everything will be well…"

The other elf didn't seem to hear him, and the lines of pain and fear on his forehead and next to his mouth were only deepening. His head that was resting in the crook of Glorfindel's arm began tossing from side to side, his eyes still firmly closed, and the golden-haired elf's mouth tightened even more while he was trying to keep the body of the younger elf still.

"No … no more … please, no more…"

Next to him, Annorathil was doing his best to blend into the wall, his eyes fixed on the lock with intensity that left no doubt that he would have been willing to give everything to get away from here, from this scene he felt he had no right to witness. Glorfindel, however, wouldn't have noticed if the other elf had disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke, his head bent and his gaze riveted on the dark-haired advisor's face. There was nothing but concern on his face, Annorathil noticed, giving the blond elf a lightning-quick look, but the pain and fear that had been visible earlier still hung over him like a dark, menacing cloud.

For a moment, the dark-haired warrior felt almost sorry for the humans of this town. Then his gaze brushed over Lord Erestor's sunken figure when he refocused on his task, and all such sentiments disappeared in an instant.

Glorfindel, oblivious to Annorathil's thoughts, ground his teeth firmly and forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. He unconsciously tightened his grip on his friend before he relaxed his hold again, realising that being crushed on top of everything else would probably not be conducive to Erestor's recovery. The panic he knew was growing inside of him was hovering just out of reach, but it was still close enough to make his hands tremble anew and cause sudden coldness to envelop his limbs.

"No one will hurt you, _mellon nín_," he whispered fiercely, bowing his head. "No one, you hear me? I will not let them, I promise you."

The other elf's eyes opened slowly at the softly spoken Sindarin words, or rather one of them did since the other was almost completely swollen shut. Confusion was filling the dark-haired elf's gaze when he stared unblinkingly and unfocussed at the face of his friend, looking very much as if he had no idea who he was. There was something else in it, though, something that was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared and could have been a small sparkle of hope.

Erestor stared at the older elf for a few moments longer, lines of confusion now joining those of pain that were etched into his face.  
"'Fin'el?"

The barely recognisable version of his name shook the golden-haired elf out of his silence, and with an enormous amount of willpower he blinked back the tears that were pricking at his eyelids and smiled down at his friend.  
"Yes, stubborn Noldo. Of course it's me. You did not think that Elrond and I would just leave you here, did you?"

"Thought … crossed …my mind," Erestor whispered, a shred of his wry humour shining through the beaten mask. "Dream."

Glorfindel frowned at the white face in front of him, wondering if there were any head injuries he had missed. Granted, Erestor and he rarely saw eye to eye about … well, anything, but now he really did not know what he was talking about.

"I do not…" he began, only to trail off abruptly and grasp his friend more tightly when the other elf suddenly moved violently in his arms, his back arching in pain and his mouth opening in a silent scream. He didn't have enough strength for anything but an agonised whimper, a sound that cut right through all the shields Glorfindel had hastily thrown up around himself and into his heart.

Glorfindel only needed a second to realise what had happened, and even though he knew that it was necessary and that Annorathil was only doing what he himself had told him to do, he would have gladly reached out and strangled the other elf for hurting his friend like this. Things being as they were, however, he had neither the time nor the opportunity, and all he could do was hold on to Erestor's body and try to calm him down without adding to his injuries. After several long seconds that felt like half an age, the councillor's body sagged in his arms, the last of his strength apparently spent. Swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat, Glorfindel slowly lessened his grip and, with the help of Annorathil who did his utmost best to avoid his gaze, carefully positioned the dark-haired elf's now freed arms on his chest. The new position allowed the elf lord to look at the torn wrists and mangled fingers more closely, and the rage that was still bubbling inside of him intensified yet again.

Annorathil quickly backed away, either afraid that Glorfindel might hold him accountable (which, considering the blond elf's state of mind, wasn't all that unlikely) or because he wanted to give the two older elves some privacy. Glorfindel watched him go for a second before he returned his gaze to Erestor's shivering form. The advisor's eyes were closed only again, and his bruised, split lips were pressed together so tightly that they looked like nothing more than a thin, bloodless line.

"I am sorry, _mellon nín_," Glorfindel tried to comfort the other elf, the words rushing out of him hurriedly. "I am so sorry, but it had to be done. The healer will be here in a second, and after that we are going to get you to Elrond. He is already waiting for you, did you know that? He has been lugging mountains of bandages through Eregion just for you, and we both know him: he would be disappointed if he couldn't use them." The other elf didn't answer, his eyes still tightly closed, as if he wanted to shut everything around him out, and Glorfindel added, strained, "Can you open your eyes, Erestor? Talk to me, my friend, please."

"No." The other elf's answer was barely audible. "Not … real. Dream."

For a moment, Glorfindel was stunned into silence, but that was a state of mind that never lasted long with him. He didn't know how he should react, torn as he was between mounting concern and plain and simple fear, and so he reacted with a wry smile.  
"A dream, about me of all people, my Lord Erestor? I am flattered."

The other elf was clearly in too much pain to notice the smile or the fact that he was in fact conversing with what he thought to be a hallucination, and he nodded minutely.  
"Aye. Good dream … but still … dream."

Glorfindel didn't know what to say or do, and so he merely bowed his head, tears once again beginning to accumulate in his eyes. The panic still hovered out of reach, and he dimly wondered why it hadn't swallowed him whole yet.

"I know that we do not always get along easily, my friend," he began, talking to the other elf as normally as he could. "We disagree on many things, you and I, and the whole of Imladris knows that we have come close to killing each other more than once. Or," he added with a thoughtful frown, "have come close to driving Elrond mad, at least. Still, if you do not know this already, I shall be saddened indeed, but I will say it nonetheless."

He paused for a moment, still looking at the wounded elf intently.

"You are the best friend I have on this side of the Sea after Elrond, one I would call my brother without thought or question or doubt. For the two of you I would walk through darkness and fire to the door of the Dark Tower itself and back again, you know that, don't you? I have nothing but respect and admiration for you, and have never lied to you, nor shall I ever. Trust me, _mellon nín_, when I tell you that I am no dream. We have come to rescue you, and no one shall hurt you further. I swear this to you on the memory of Turgon Fingolfinion who was once my lord and king and that of Ereinion Gil-galad his nephew."

Whether it was the manner in which Glorfindel spoke these particular words, what he was saying per se or the simple fact that the golden-haired elf would never break a vow he had sworn in Turgon's name, he did not know, but Erestor slowly pried his working eye open again, giving him a look that was somewhere between suspicion, barely controlled hope and something that might have been a sliver of dry humour.

"No … dream … must be a … hallucination."

"No hallucination, my friend," Glorfindel smiled gently. "No hallucination, no dream, no drug-induced visions, no illusory perception of any kind. I am real."

The bruised face in front of him twisted into the resemblance of a smile, but there was no strength or real mirth behind it, only a weary, tired sense of relief.  
"Knew you … would come."

"Aye, here I am," the golden-haired elf agreed with a small, wan smile of his own. "It is my duty to look after all those who are members of Elrond's household, so that includes you, arrogant Noldo."

"Insufferable… Vanya," Erestor whispered, but it sounded more like a wheeze, as though he had spent whatever small energies he'd had left and was now reaching the end of his strength. "I … glad. I … would have … hated to … to die alone."

There it was, finally, the panic that had been looming at the edge of his mind, as cold and dark as the presence of a Barrow-wight. Glorfindel felt his body grow cold and his mind go numb as he struggled to understand what the younger elf was saying, until a second later understanding washed over him, a horrible understanding that left him weak and more afraid than he had been in a long time.

"No," was the only thing the elf lord said, unconsciously tightening his hold on the far too light body in his arms. "No, you will not die, Erestor. I will not let you."

Erestor didn't seem to hear him, his eyes closing once again as he began to drift off again.  
"Too … too tired for this, 'Fin'el…"

"You will not die, Erestor," Glorfindel stressed again, the panic inside of him pulsing bright and hot even while he forced himself to calmness. "We are here now. All you to do is hold on until Elrond can get to you. Do you understand me, Erestor?" He visibly resisted to the urge to shake the dark-haired elf, who tried to focus on him, without too much success as it appeared. "Hold on a little while longer. I know how you feel, you know I do! I know all about the pain and the weariness, about the fear and the terror and the helplessness. Don't let them beat you in the end, _mellon nín_. Don't you dare die on me now!"

The other elf blinked up at him, apparently too tired and in too much pain to retort anything, and so Glorfindel cast his mind around for something that would be so terrible that his friend couldn't help but cling to this world with all his strength.   
"If you don't do as I say," he finally began in a low tone of voice, looking at the pale, oh so pale face in front of him, "I will have Lindir compose a ballad about the little brandy incident a few hundred years ago, and I will tell him what exactly the _word _was."

Erestor's working eye opened wide at that, and for a moment the ghost of his old, cold indignation pushed the pain on his face to the side.  
"Would … not … dare."

Glorfindel grinned shakily, trying to ignore the renewed pallor of the other elf's skin.  
"Try me, my lord."

The open eye narrowed in a way most people would have found rather threatening.  
"I can … find ways to … t-triple your … paperwork."

"I am sure you can," the golden-haired elf nodded, doing his utmost best to project the playful, reckless, happy-go-lucky air he knew drove Erestor up the walls.

The eye narrowed even more and it was clear that Erestor was about to say something rather uncomplimentary, his earlier mood momentarily forgotten in face of the far more important duty of having to threaten Glorfindel, when footsteps could be heard behind them. Glorfindel's head whipped around a long time before Erestor could even place the sound, his thoughts still far too scrambled and confused, and the blond elf had already begun to move in order to try and place himself between his friend and the possible threat when he saw the pacifying gestures Annorathil was making. It took him only a second to connect them to the long-awaited return of his men, and indeed, he could already see the first of his warriors round the corner, looking a little more dishevelled but not as if he and the others had run into any serious problems on the way to the garden.

He looked back down onto his friend, the first real smile lighting up his face.  
"The healers are here, just as I promised. You only have to hold on until I can find Elrond for you, do you understand me? It shouldn't take too long – you know his family. He'll be where chaos and mayhem are the thickest."

Erestor stared up at him, the lines of pain once again deepening now that he became a little bit more aware of his surroundings and the complaints his body screeched at him. He could not see clearly and had a really hard time concentrating on what his friend was saying, but the knowledge that he was indeed here and that he was no longer alone was enough to make the pain and the dark, horrible memories a little easier to bear.

"One … one condition," he whispered, unable to suppress an open shiver at one particular memory of a 'session' not too long ago. Acalith's captain had been exceptionally angry that time, and even crueller than usual.

"Name it," Glorfindel nodded his head unhesitatingly. "Whatever you want, _mellon nín_. Whatever you want."

Erestor tried to take a deep breath that turned into a painful gasp when sharp, biting pain knifed through his ribcage.  
"Gasur…"

"…is already as good as dead," Glorfindel finished his friend's sentence and looked up unwillingly when the other elves reached the cell. He returned his attention to the dark-haired elf without sparing them more than a single glance. "He will not live to brag about anything he did, my friend. This I promise you."

"You … kill him?" the other elf asked, his strength quite obviously finally spent.

Glorfindel nodded at him, his face completely serious and his eyes very cold and dark.  
"Oh yes."

Erestor didn't answer, either because he didn't have enough energy left or because most of the rest of Glorfindel's party chose this moment to enter the cell. Within a matter of seconds, the wounded elf had gently but firmly been extricated from Glorfindel's grasp and the elf lord had been pushed aside as the healer and his apprentice began working on the advisor, both looking far too serious for Glorfindel's taste.

Neither of the two healers paid him any attention at all as he all but stumbled backwards, his gaze still fixed on what he could see of his friend's face. A moment later, however, the older of the healers shifted slightly to the right, obscuring his view. Before he even knew what was happening, the blond elf found himself outside of the small cell, staring blindly at the back of the healer and only slowly becoming aware of a strange, buzzing sound.

Said sound turned out to be his highest-ranking lieutenant, who – at least judging by the slightly indignant, long-suffering expression on his face – had been talking for quite a while.  
"…leave four men here as guards, sir, just in case anybody is stupid enough to actually run down here instead of away. Valar, but it is bedlam up there!"

"Good," Glorfindel nodded, forcing himself to concentrate on the warrior's words. He left it to the lieutenant to figure out whether he was referring to his precautionary measure or the general state of the mansion, and lifted his head and straightened his shoulders in a way that made the lieutenant very glad that he was, in fact, on the elf lord's side. "We are leaving."

"Yes, my lord," the other elf answered smoothly, gesturing to his men. "To the courtyard?"

"Yes," Glorfindel nodded, his voice cool and calm and utterly devoid of anything but cold anger. "I have a promise to keep."

The golden-haired elf gave the two elves that were bending over his friend's body a last, long look before he turned around and strode down the corridor without uttering another word. The lieutenant gestured at his men, gave the four warriors who would be remaining behind a curt nod and began to follow the elf lord, moving as soundlessly as his superior.

He did not know for sure what Lord Glorfindel was talking about, but nothing in this world could have made him ask.  
**  
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Glorfindel's lieutenant had actually been quite kind with his words. "Bedlam" was the weakest of the terms Elladan would have used to describe the situation of the courtyard, but then again, he might be biased, he freely admitted that. He had, after all, spent the past ten minutes or so thinking about how he could throw this yard into chaos, and now that he could survey the scene, he had to say that it was one of his better works.

It was complete and utter chaos, that was what it was. Human guards were running to and fro, looking more than a little like startled ants that just couldn't figure out what to do. His fellow warriors were beginning to push their way through the humans' outer defences which the middle-aged, chestnut-haired officer had hastily thrown up. It had been a laudable attempt, Elladan had to admit that, too, but in the end a vain one. None of the elves was in a mood to give the men any quarter, and more than one actually looked quite murderous. Isál, in particular, looked far more exhilarated than he should have, felling humans left and right and looking very much as if he was having the time of his life.

Not that he could blame him, Elladan thought darkly while he ducked a stray arrow – wherever had that one come from? – and side-stepped an overenthusiastic guard at the same time. He, too, had remarkably little problems … eliminating the humans here, especially after seeing what they'd been about to do to his twin.

With a low growl that would have reminded anybody who knew both of them of Glorfindel, the dark-haired twin's hand shot out, grasped his attacker by his sleeve and whirled him around. The man's attempts to resists were no match for Elladan's superior elven strength, and a second later the human's head made – undoubtedly painful – contact with the wall. A low, crunching sound could be heard that was either the wall or the man's head giving way, but Elladan couldn't have cared less about which was the case here. These men had tried to kill Elrohir, had tried to execute the other half of his soul like a common criminal, and for that they would pay, all of them, all he could get his hands on. There were things he did not forgive easily – or at all – and threatening his siblings and especially his twin was right on top of that list.

A cold shiver made its way down the elf's back, even despite the heat of the battle and the fact that it was not overly cold, at least not by elven standards. He doubted that he would ever forgot the sight that had presented itself to him when they had reached the courtyard, edging forward bit by bit. The guards had been too concentrated on what was going on in front of them to actually pay the rest of their surroundings overly much attention (and, honestly, who could have suspected an elven army to turn up at their backs?), and so they hadn't had too much trouble getting close to them without the men noticing.

Elladan, however, had had more than a little trouble controlling his feelings and, more importantly, his reactions when he had rounded the corner of the warehouse he and his group of warriors had been using as cover and had seen his brother, his twin brother whom he loved so much more than life itself, who was being pushed up a scaffold, into the direction of a wooden block and an axe and a group of humans who all looked frighteningly able and willing to use both. The only thing that had prevented him from rushing forward had in fact been Celylith's hand that had shot out and wrapped itself around the twin's forearm, roughly pulling him back.

Elladan had struggled for a second, both because of the overwhelming need to get to his twin's side and because he was still a Noldo and would not give in to a Silvan Elf just like that. A moment later, however, reality had come crashing in and he had allowed the silver-haired elf to pull him backwards, back into the shadow and cover of the house. Relief had followed the anger quickly after; Elrohir was perhaps about to be executed – _again_, he thought to himself, annoyed – but he was alive. Bruised, dishevelled and apparently as mad as a Barrow-wight someone had just trodden onto its robe, but _alive_.

Celylith had given him a searching look, apparently making sure that he wouldn't rush off again in a second, before he had reluctantly let go of Elladan's forearm and had stepped next to him, peering around the corner. The two of them had surveyed the scene quickly, their eyes wandering over the scaffold, the men gathered around it, possible escape routes and finally over the small, pale and defiant-looking group of elven warriors that were standing on the far side of the courtyard, close to one of the gates. Theirs hadn't been an ideal venture point, and the shifting men in the yard had made it even harder to see, but even so it had taken them only a few moments to see the still, fair-haired figure lying on the ground at the back of the group, and the warrior who was bending over the other elf, an expression of open, barely-controlled fear on his face. Celylith had stiffened next to him as if something had taken a hold of him and violently pulled his shoulders back, and the next thing Elladan knew had been him clinging to the silver-haired elf's shirt sleeve and holding him back with all his strength.

Celylith had glared at him for a while – quite a while to be perfectly honest – but in the end he had relented and allowed the dark-haired elf to pull him back. Even Elladan's hissed explanation that he wouldn't be able to help anybody, least of all his prince, if he did the very stupid thing of running off like this and getting himself killed, could not really pacify him, and for a moment the twin was truly afraid that the wood-elf would get loose and do something incredibly idiotic. Which wouldn't have surprised Elladan all that much, either; he had known Celylith for quite some time, after all, and he had seen him do a multitude of things that could only be called brain-dead or even worse. Most of the time, it had been because of Legolas, too. Or because of Aragorn, or because of both.

In the end Celylith had relieved his frustration the only way he could at the moment, and in a way that was rather satisfactory for all everybody involved – the elves, that was. It had taken Elladan only a few seconds to communicate to the rest of his warriors what he wanted them to do in this part of the courtyard – spreading chaos and panic wasn't all that complicated a concept, after all – and only half a minute longer until his father signalled that they were ready, too. It was nothing more than a short birdcall that was imitated so perfectly that probably even a slightly less-than-average intelligent bird would have been fooled.

The last note hadn't even faded yet when Celylith had reached for an arrow, had notched it to his bow and released it. It described a rather nice arch and finally buried itself in the throat of one of the humans standing on the scaffold in a most pleasing way. The man fell almost in slow motion, slowly pirouetting around his own axis, while his companions looked on in stunned silence. The men's utter motionlessness had lasted for quite a while longer than Elladan or any of the others would have thought, and just when the twin had thought about walking up to one of the men and checking if they had turned into stone or something of equal properties, one of them, the brown-haired officer, had shaken himself out of his paralysis and had started bellowing a string of orders, even while more arrows rained down on him and his men.

After that, everything had gone from confusion to chaos to utter mayhem in less than a minute. Elladan grinned darkly, ducking under the wild swing of one of the men and simultaneously thrusting his shoulder into the man's now unprotected belly. The soldier went down with a strangled grunt, out of the battle for a while, but Elladan couldn't have cared less. He had better things to do right now, and if the man wanted to have another go, he was welcome to it.

There was a problem, though, a real problem beside the very obvious ones like people trying to kill him and his warriors. He had lost sight of Elrohir almost in the exact moment the men had started to realise what was going on, and he was beginning to get a little bit panicked. The twin shook his head inwardly, pushing his way through a group of human soldiers, a couple of his warriors at his back. All right, he admitted wryly to himself, he was more than a little bit panicked. He was very close to a mental breakdown.

He thought he had seen Elrohir jump down from the scaffold as soon as the fighting had started, taking two of his guards with him as he barrelled into them. He fervently hoped that that was the truth and that he hadn't been imagining it – Elrohir wasn't stupid, though, and knew well enough when to keep his head down and wait for help, so that chance wasn't all that small – but with the mayhem that was going on around them, there was simply no way to be sure. They were pushing through the men's defences, yes, even faster now that his father's men had managed to circle around and were beginning to press in on them as well, but they weren't fast enough. There was a lot to be said about elven reflexes and speed, but these men were good, even rather good. They were no match for his father's warriors, and even wouldn't have been if their warriors hadn't been so monumentally furious, but they were determined, very determined. One might even have said they were desperate, and even the most idiotic man would not have asked why.

Their warriors were very, _very _furious indeed.

He hadn't seen Celylith in a while either, and he should have, definitely more easily than Elrohir. Even though he was loathe admitting it, there were some advantages to not being dark-haired. In the heat of battle, it was far easier to spot someone who stood out in some way, and fact was that there was no other elf (or man, for that point) around with that particular, silver hair. There were disadvantages, though, and just as many in his opinion. On the one side, it usually meant that you were not of Noldorin descent – and just who in his right mind would wish for that? – but on the other, it also meant that your enemies could pick you out of a group more easily. That was why none of their captains or higher-ranking officers wore any kind of insignia; there was no reason to make picking off your officers one by one any easier for your opponents, after all.

Celylith, however, was nowhere to be seen, which just couldn't be a good sign. He had known the wood-elf long enough now to know that he was more than able to find a lot of trouble of his own (even though he adamantly refused to admit it). It might actually be true what Celylith was always claiming, namely that Aragorn's and Legolas' atrociously bad luck had rubbed off on him, which would mean that, right now, he was probably neck-deep in deadly peril. Oh, and at least two insane megalomaniacs would be after his blood – if there was one thing to be said about the escapades in which his woodland friends and human brother always got themselves involved, it was that they never did anything half-way.

So, to make a long story short, as Estel would have said, he didn't know where or how Elrohir was and had lost sight of one of King Thranduil's captains. One of the more annoying ones, granted, but he was rather sure that the golden-haired elven king would have some choice words to say about this once he heard about it, and so would his equally annoying son. Oh, and yes, he would almost have forgotten about that: Legolas was – at least judging by what little they had been able to see – seriously injured, and he also didn't know where he was. He was rather sure that the warriors who had been standing around him would do their best to take care of him and protect him, especially if he was truly as badly wounded as he'd looked, but, well, this _was _mayhem. Even a Nazgûl would have taken an appalled step backwards.

And to round everything off nicely, the dark-haired twin went on, his inner voice positively dripping with irony, he also didn't know what had happened to his little brother or where Erestor was, if he was indeed still alive. He had almost single-handedly managed to lose track of nearly every single being that meant something to him on Arda, which wasn't all that easy. If he hadn't been in such a dangerous situation or a bit more anxious, he would have stopped and shaken his head at the irony, or started tearing out chunks of his own hair.

Elladan was rudely brought back to the present when his instincts screamed at him in warning, causing him to twist to the side and therefore to avoid the broadsword one of men thrust at him. He ground his teeth, retaliated in a manner that was incomparably more effective (not to mention final) and forced himself to calmness, no matter how hard it was. There was a battle to be fought, after all, and he had to find a multitude of wayward people, most importantly his twin.

Elladan shook his head darkly and suppressed a low growl that made the two humans who were closing in on him halt in their tracks. Elbereth be his witness, but Elrohir had a lot of explaining to do once he found him  
**  
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Elladan had a lot of explaining to do once he found him, Elrohir decided detachedly while he peered out of his temporary hiding place, only to retract his head almost immediately as a stray arrow almost took his eye out. This rescue was definitely more on the chaotic side, even for one orchestrated by his twin.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate being rescued, he went on, ducking back under the scaffold and dimly wondering how long the men – and most importantly Gasur – would need to figure out whereto he'd disappeared. Not too long, Elrohir decided dispassionately. There was a lot to be said about the humans here, and he wouldn't have risked even a single coin in a bet about their intelligence, but Acalith's captain wasn't exactly stupid. He was no genius, surely, but he did seem to possess a set of rather good instincts that were apparently all attuned to his prisoners. If he wasn't too busy saving his own skin, the man would surely figure out where he'd gone, sooner or later.

Then again, if Legolas and Aragorn were right in their unanimous, rather uncharitable assessment of his character, Gasur would already be half-way out of this town, probably somewhere close to the gates. A coward remained a coward, even if you put him into a captain's uniform and put him in charge of a small army.

This brought him right back to the fact that he certainly didn't mind being rescued. He had, honestly, not even the slightest idea what was going on here or how his father had found them. His very first reaction had been that of surprise, though, for when he had looked at the fletchings of the arrow that had buried itself in the throat of the man who had just picked up the axe, fully expecting to see the feathers and arrangement their warriors favoured, he had seen the brown, slightly longer feathers that were so typical of the Wood-elves of Mirkwood.

His confusion had lasted only a split second, and a long time before the first man had shaken himself out of his shock-induced paralysis, he'd had already put two and two together. Mirkwood arrows – that could only mean that Celylith had indeed arrived in Imladris and had somehow, the Valar knew how, convinced his father to be allowed to come along. It wasn't that the wood-elf wasn't capable – well, he was as capable as the rest of his kind – but he was rather sure that his father wouldn't be too thrilled about the idea of taking the envoy of another realm (and King Thranduil's at that!) onto a mission like _this_. Getting another ruler's captain killed while he was, plainly speaking, _your _responsibility, was just what had started more wars than one, or at least serious diplomatic incidents.

Rescue, Elrohir thought almost dreamily, his fingers closing more tightly around the knife he had been able to … liberate from one of the men into which he had barrelled when he had jumped off the scaffold. _Rescue_. He hadn't believed anybody was coming for them, hadn't believed that anybody back home would be able to figure out what was going on here. He didn't know how his father had done it, if he had had a vision or had managed to wade through the lies, the machinations and hidden agendas everybody here seemed to have to finally get to the truth, but he was deeply, profoundly grateful. He was old and – yes, he was going to say it – wise enough not be too proud to accept help when he needed it and when it was offered. Elladan would be unbearable for a few weeks, as he always was when he got the chance to "save" him, but he would bear his twin's behaviour with grace and good humour, as long as he got to see him again.

That had actually been the thing that had frightened him most when he had been pushed up onto the scaffold: The very, very real, almost completely certain possibility that he would not see Elladan again. He liked to think that he was afraid of not too many things, but that one thought had always scared him witless, ever since he had been old enough to contemplate it. He truly did not know how their father had survived Uncle Elros' death; he himself was very sure that he would not survive Elladan for long, nor would Elladan survive him should one of them ever fall.

It was, somehow, an oddly reassuring thought.

Wrenching himself away from that with quite a lot of force, Elrohir returned his attention to the knife he held precariously balanced behind his back, gripping the inexplicably slippery hilt with his bound hands a little bit more tightly. Taking the dagger from one of the men hadn't been too hard; the human had been stunned by the admittedly rather hard impact with the soggy ground, and the kick Elrohir had aimed at his temple as soon as he'd managed to gain his feet had probably not helped matters either. Chaos had broken out a moment later and the guards had been far too busy to give him any attention at all, and so he had managed to slip under the somewhat haphazardly-constructed scaffold without anybody noticing.

Elrohir winced as the knife's blade bit into the skin of his wrist, leaving yet another mark there, and he forced himself to concentrate once more. It proved to be hard, though, with fear and panic and excitement running through his veins and the worry for Elladan, Legolas and the rest of their warriors almost literally burning a hole into his breast. Shouts, curses and the shrill clashing of metal against metal could be heard outside his hiding place, and every time someone ran past the scaffold, the elf froze, afraid that someone might have realised where he'd concealed himself. He was burning to join the fight, to help Legolas, Elladan and the others and punish the humans for their actions, but he would very much prefer it if he were to do it with his hands free and possibly a weapon in his hands.

Finally, when he was almost ready to swear that he had been sawing away at the rope for ages, the last thread of his bounds snapped, and with an expression that was somewhere between surprised, mildly suspicious and relieved Elrohir pulled his hands in front of him, looking at his wrists for a second. Deciding that, after all this and Annorathil's earlier attempts to pick the lock of the chains, they looked very much as if he'd tried to slit them with a very blunt knife, he gripped the selfsame a bit more tightly, took a deep breath, and ducked out of his hiding place.

Even though he had been in more battles than he could count, it never ceased to amaze him how incredibly _noisy _they were. Noisy and chaotic, even thought this was worse than usual, maybe because the battle was confined to the courtyard. Even though it was a spacious one, especially considering the relatively small size of the town, it was far too small for something like this, only adding to the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped, a feeling that quite a few of the men were harbouring, at least judging by the rather desperate expressions on their faces. Elrohir grimaced darkly. Too bad for them, really.

Another man was rushing past him without giving him even a second glance – the humans must still be able to hold their lines against the elven warriors, Elrohir reasoned, or the man would have been far more alert – and the elven twin half-moved to let him pass, for a second forgetting that he had a knife and was more than able to use it, too. A moment later he realised what he was doing, and with slight, disgusted curling of his mouth he stretched out his arm at chest-height. The man's upper chest collided with Elrohir's forearm, the elf's steely strength making it look as if he had just run headlong into a stone wall. The guard was hurled backwards, staggering into another man who was following him at a dead-run, and Elrohir was treated to the pleasure of watching both of them fall to the ground in a heap.

It was actually such a pleasing sight that he almost forgot that they might try to get up again. Unsurprisingly, they did try, although they might as well have chosen the easy way and stayed where they were. Elrohir's less-than-friendly feelings for the men which almost bordered on homicidal hadn't changed in the slightest during the past few hours; if anything, they had become even more less-than-friendly. Before one of the men could even get further than to his knees, the elf had closed what distance there was between them. Two muffled thuds could be heard when the hilt of the knife connected with the men's heads, and even while they were collapsing back onto the ground, Elrohir was moving again, looking for a spot where he would be able to survey the situation and figure out what to do.

He didn't have to search long, because he quickly came to the conclusion that, since it was such a completely chaotic situation, any spot would do. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the wooden podium, let his eyes wander over the courtyard, and automatically began to regret that he hadn't taken one of the men's swords. Or, he added darkly, narrowing his eyes at the mayhem surrounding him, perhaps both of them.

He didn't know who was responsible for all this, but he had the niggling suspicion that it was in fact Elladan. His dear brother had always had a knack for strategy, and to orchestrate something like this would have required meticulous planning. Only Elladan's talent for strategy could, coupled with his sense for the mischievous and chaotic, have resulted in something quite like … this.

The men had formed a rough semicircle around the scaffold that was slightly dented around the edges and ended and began left and right of the main staircase. Whoever had set this up had made sure that his men had the main house at their backs and had therefore at least one possible route to retreat, which automatically and immediately convinced him that Gasur hadn't been the one responsible for it. The dark-haired captain was hardly one to care about what happened to the men under his command.

Even while he was watching, the edges of the semicircle began to wobble and move backwards. Tall, mostly dark-haired figures with long, gleaming blades and the uncanny grace and speed of the Fair Folk were increasingly pressing against the men's defences, and Elrohir's schooled, experienced eye knew that it would be only the matter of minutes before the line would crumble under the persistent onslaught. It was clear that the men, driven by fear that almost bordered on panic, intended to hold the elven warriors off as long as they could, but determination only got you so far when you were dealing with half an army of very angry Firstborn. Elrohir automatically tried to spot Elladan, Glorfindel or someone else he knew, but there too many elves that moved into too many directions. Gasur, too, was nowhere to be seen, and he couldn't quite decide if he felt happy about that or not.

Even though the whole layout sounded simple and straightforward enough, it was anything but: Men were running to and fro, trying to follow orders and reinforce certain sections of the line or simply trying to get to safety. More than a fair share of motionless bodies was lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath their still forms, most of them outside of the men's semicircle, but a few inside of it as well, apparently those who had fallen to the elves' attack before the line could be established and strengthened. Elrohir narrowed his eyes and found to his immense relief that he couldn't spot a single elf among the dead. 'Not yet,' he added almost morbidly, but it was a relief nonetheless.

People were running out of and into the main house as well, most of them looking quite panicked. The cacophony of shouts, screams, curses and the clashing of weapons was almost deafening, and Elrohir found himself wincing more than once when an exceptionally shrill yell grated at his sensitive hearing.

All this was nice as such, and he did not feel the slightest bit of pity for any of the men, but it also left him at a distinct disadvantage: He was the only elf behind enemy lines. His warriors were standing somewhere to his left, having managed to make their way over to the wall of the main house in the initial chaos. They were cut off from the newly-arrived elven warriors as well, but they had obviously placed Legolas on the ground at the wall and had drawn a tight semicircle around him. It seemed that, along the way, they had acquired a few weapons as well, and they were defending themselves ferociously against any man who dared stray too close to them.

Elrohir didn't worry about them. He knew all of them well and had even trained a few of them himself, and he had the fullest confidence in their abilities. Unless the men threw a full-blown assault against them – which they wouldn't be able to do now, for that they simply didn't have the manpower – they would hold their position until the rest of their warriors could get to them, he was very sure about that. No, he didn't worry about them. He worried about himself.

He was cut off from everybody else, and neither his warriors nor the rest of their men would be able to come to his aid should he run into serious trouble – and, considering how well things had been going lately, he would do so soon. He was rather sure that more than one man would be more than happy about the chance to try and kill a single elf who was only armed with a knife.

The dark-haired elf had just arrived at that conclusion when a group of men came running out of the building, skidded down the stairs and began to rush over to the right. Elrohir was already beginning to release a breath he hadn't realise he'd been holding when the middle-sized, chestnut-haired man whom he had identified as a higher-ranking officer earlier turned shortly away from his own fight (he was, with two other men, in the process of trying to push back an elf whom Elrohir recognised as a warrior of Glorfindel's unit) and shouted an order that caused the four of them to change course sharply. They veered off their previous course and were now coming right at him, apparently in order to strengthen the line at his back.

Elrohir didn't even have the time to contemplate returning to his hiding place, not that he would have done it anyway. He was completely and thoroughly fed up with his situation, and the very, very last thing he would do was to go and hide again. These people here had killed Elvynd and his men, had abducted Erestor, had tried to kill him and his men and, most importantly, had dared hurt his brother and his friend. He knew that, in the eyes of his race, Estel was considered an adult and knew also that the man was (his appallingly bad luck notwithstanding) capable of taking take of himself, but to him he would almost remain his little brother, no matter whether he was fifty, a hundred or even two hundred years old. Anybody who laid hands on Aragorn should better be prepared to face his wrath, which, in this regard, was not something to be taken lightly.

A stab of bright, paralysing panic went through him in the exact same moment in which the men spotted him next to the scaffold, the surprise and mild alarm upon seeing him easily visible on their faces. Estel was in Aberon, was trapped in a city that could be flooded any second. He was still weak and would be unable to get to safety in time should the worst come to pass, and if nothing was done, Eru alone knew what would happen to him…

He hadn't yet finished that thought when the men reached them, swords unsheathed and ready. The exact anticipatory, gleeful gleam that the twin had predicted shone in their eyes as they surrounded him, and he shifted slightly to keep the scaffold at his back. Even considering his superior elven speed and strength, he was rather badly outnumbered, not to mention that he only had a knife. 'And just whose fault would that be?' a small, malignant voice murmured inside his head. 'You could have taken one of the swords, but no, that would have been too easy, wouldn't it?'

Before the voice could start enumerating all the other mistakes he'd made over the past few months – and it would if he'd let it, he knew that from experience – Elrohir moved forward, deciding that attack was his best defence, at least for now. The soldier, who had apparently not anticipated such a bold and/or stupid move, instinctively backed away a few steps, just enough to expose the flank of the man standing next to him. Even though the elf hadn't counted on this, he wasn't one to allow such an excellent opportunity to go to waste, and before the man even realised what was happening, Elrohir had twisted around and brought his knife down.

The blade bit deeply into the guard's side, cutting through flesh, sinews and other things Elrohir really didn't want to think about right now, until the twin felt it encounter the resistance of what had to be a rib. Cursing his bad luck under his breath and resolutely ignoring the man's shocked gasp of pain, he wrenched the knife back out and only just blocked a swing the soldier to his right aimed at him, allowing the wounded man to fall to the ground. His bloody dagger trembled slightly as the man tried to free his blade that was trapped against his, and Elrohir found himself praying fervently that the rather crudely-forged weapon wouldn't go ahead and splinter in his hands.

Banishing these rather morbid thoughts from his mind, Elrohir executed a small manoeuvre Elladan and he had been taught by none other than Glorfindel himself, freeing his dagger and simultaneously taking a step forward, into the direction of his adversary. He was too close now for the man to use his sword, and before the guard had even fully comprehendeded that fact, Elrohir had drawn back and slammed his elbow into the man's face. There was strength behind that blow, unchecked elven strength that was only fuelled by the worry and fear that raged inside of him, and so it didn't surprise Elrohir overly much when a low, crunching sound could be heard when his elbow made contact with the man's face. If the human was lucky, he'd merely smashed his nose; if he wasn't, he had just shoved it into his brain, Elrohir decided coolly as the man collapsed without even uttering a single word and blood streaming out of his ruined nose.

Elrohir took a moment to see if he felt any kind of misgivings or regret about his actions, realised a second later that he did not, and went on with solving the rest of his problem. The two remaining men had over the past half-minute apparently gained a whole new level of respect for him and his small knife, and were far less eager to engage him. Elrohir, however, were now thoroughly tired of all this. He didn't have time for this. He was more than willing to fight these men, together or alone and however they wanted, but first he had to make sure that everybody else was safe. These men were keeping him away from his brother, his friends and his warriors, and he would not stand for it.

The elven twin was slowly beginning to move forward, circling around in a not so very subtle attempt to outflank the men that they could no more overlook than the sunrise, possibilities and tactics running through his head one after the other. Just when he had decided on the quickest but rather messy way of despatching the two of them, a movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and he turned his head slightly. He quickly saw what had caused him to take notice: At the edge of the stairs, just outside of the main building, a man had appeared, looking very much as if he didn't belong here. He was older, probably fifty or more years old, and had grey, stringy hair that hung into his still tanned face. It wasn't so much his age that made him stand out, though; there were more than a few humans in the courtyard of the same age and with the same grey hair. It was more his clothing, or perhaps the very clear, lost air that surrounded him that indicated that he was not of this town.

Elrohir narrowed his eyes, quickly turning back around to the two men and aiming a swipe at one of them, who had apparently decided to use his moment of distraction to sneak up on him. His knife connected with the man's blade that had been aimed high, and he pushed it aside with an almost annoyed flick of his wrist. The man couldn't compensate for the sudden increased pressure against his sword arm, and he stumbled to the side, forcefully impacting with the wooden planks of the scaffold. A dull, dry crack could be heard when the human connected with the podium, and while he was collapsing into a boneless heap, Elrohir turned back, frowning. He knew this man.

The elven twin gave the older human who was still standing rooted to the spot, surveying the fighting with wide eyes, another look, taking in his costly robes. They didn't quite look like the robes he'd seen Acalith's councillors wear; the design was similar, but not completely the same. It was almost as if special care had been taken to ensure that they did not look the same, which, now that he knew more about the relationship between the two towns, did not surprise him overly much and… Elrohir's thoughts ground to a stop so suddenly that he was surprised that no one could hear it. He didn't look like councilmen he had seen in Donrag. He looked like councilmen he had seen in Aberon. He looked, in fact, like a very specific councilman of Aberon, one who had disappeared very suddenly and mysteriously.

He looked, Elrohir concluded calmly, a lot like Hurag.

He hadn't even truly realised that he was moving forward when he was already next to the last remaining soldier, and a moment later the man was lying on the ground as motionless and still as a carved statue, surrounded by a slowly growing pool of blood. Elrohir couldn't for the life of him remember what he'd done, or even that he had done something, but he didn't even overly care. He was far too concentrated on making his way through the chaos over to the stone steps without being killed, far too concentrated on reaching the one man who was, at least to some degree, responsible for all this. Hurag had supplied Donrag with information for Valar-knew-how-long, he had betrayed Erestor, Elvynd, Aragorn and Legolas and them to Acalith, he had stood aside as this mad woman had plotted his own hometown's destruction, and he had done all this for _money _of all things. Not for revenge or love or hate or even desire for glory and power, all of which Elrohir could have understood to a very, very small degree, but for money, for something that could never buy you the things that were truly important.

It took him several minutes in which he was almost killed at least thrice, but in the end he managed to reach the main house and make his way up to its door, finally having reached the relative shelter the panicking humans offered who were all trying to squeeze themselves through the doorway and reach the comparative safety of the house. The dark-haired elf side-stepped another servant who had somehow got lost here (just what were servants and the like doing here, in the middle of a battle?), watching the man frantically try to shove his way through the crowd of other people who were trying to do exactly the same, and turned around to where Hurag should be.

Elrohir blinked slowly as his eyes came to rest on a stone pillar and nothing more, and just when he was about to decide once and for all that yes, the Valar _did _hate him, his family and everybody who associated with them, a small, fluttering movement caught his eye, making him turn his head sharply to the side. The last edge of a costly, dark robe disappeared through a smaller doorway to the left just as he had fully turned around, and Elrohir was already moving before he had decided that this was indeed the man he sought.

It took him only a few moments to cross the distance between the stairs and the doorway, push aside two more men who were trying to escape the same way Aberon's councilman had and follow, his grip tightening on his dagger. He knew that he was moving into the wrong direction, that he was putting even more distance between himself and help, but right now he didn't care. The interior of the house was as good a place as any to stay out of sight until Elladan and the others had broken through the men's lines, and if he so happened to stumble over Hurag, Gasur or any of the others – well, who was he to refuse a gift the Valar had just dropped into his lap? That would be downright disrespectful, and his parents had brought him up better than that.

Elrohir was hurrying down a dark, only barely lit corridor, but he had no problem discerning his way in the darkness. His elven eyes were far sharper than those of a normal human (and still far sharper than those of a Man of Númenor, as he kept telling Estel), and so he was moving more quickly than the man he was pursuing. He hadn't walked more than a few dozen paces when he reached a corner, turned left and came almost face-to-face with the elderly human, who was right now trying to force open an obviously locked door to their left. He wasn't making much headway, though, and Elrohir thought rather gleefully that he should have spent less time scheming and more time learning important skills such as how to pick a lock.

The man stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment, as if he was unable to believe what his eyes were seeing. Considering the fact that Elrohir's face was bruised, scratched and held a very furious, dangerous expression, that his clothes were bloody, the dagger he held in his hand even more so, and that he shouldn't even be here in the first place, that wasn't all that surprising a reaction either.

Elrohir ignored the man's expression and smiled nonchalantly, something that was, to his surprise, not very hard.  
"Master Hurag," he said pleasantly and leaned back against the stone wall at his back. "How very nice to see you again. I had almost lost hope."

Hurag opened and closed his mouth, looking very much like a fish out of water, but he was obviously unable to formulate a single word, not to mention a whole sentence. Elrohir's smile became indulgent, and he nodded casually.

"Yes, yes, I know, this _is _somewhat of a shock," he went on, studying the man with dark, cold eyes and an intensity that even his grandmother would have found somewhat hard to bear. "I hadn't thought I'd see you here either. But, then again, a few days ago I wouldn't have thought that you would murder innocent people, hand my friends over to this mad lady and her equally mad captain, lay a trap for my father's advisor and his men, blackmail half of your fellow councilmen into compliance and betray your own city to her enemies!" He stopped for a moment and then shook his head. "No, I have to correct myself. I always thought you capable of murdering innocent people, if they were helpless and the price was right."

Hurag swallowed with difficulty, his eyes moving restlessly from the closed door to the empty corridor behind him and the motionless elf who studied him with those cold, assessing eyes that held no mercy or sympathy at all.  
"I … I don't … I don't know what you are talking about," he ground out finally.

Elrohir's eyes hardened in a manner very similar to his father when he was close to falling into one of his true rages, a state that was rare in the half-elf. When it came to pass, though, even the most battle-hardened warriors sought cover as quickly as they could and found something to stuff into their ears. Witnessing one of Lord Elrond's rages was no fun at all.

"Oh yes, you do," the twin answered coolly, as if he was talking about nothing more interesting than the weather. "You do know perfectly well what I am talking about. Please spare me the subterfuge and the pathetic attempts to deny everything. You are here, in Donrag, in the city of your hometown's enemies. That is all the proof I – or anybody else, for that matter – need."

Hurag slowly and not very subtly backed away a step or two, his mind racing so quickly that it was making his head spin. This should not be happening; none of this should be happening! He should be a very rich, very powerful, _safe _ man now, not facing an obviously murderous elf! The elf should be dead, there should be no other elves around and there should definitely be no fighting! Everything was coming apart at the seams, everything he had worked for these past few years, and there was not a single thing he could think of that would stop the process.

"Why are you here?" he finally asked, only to realise what a massively stupid question it was.

Elrohir smiled again, this time looking torn between mild amusement and incredulity.

"What do you mean, human, here in this place or alive? For the first you are responsible, I believe, and for the second Gasur." He spat out the name as if it was something foul-tasting and thoroughly disgusting. "Do you want to know what he did, that … that creature, after _you _betrayed my men and me to him and his mad lady? He stabbed my companion; he stabbed him in the abdomen and _twisted _the knife." He took a pace closer to the man, his eyes dark and sad and very furious at once. "Do you know what it feels like, to have a knife twisted in your guts? Do you? No, of course you do not, because you are a coward who hides behind others whom you pay with blood money to fight your dirty battles for you! He is dying out there; he is bleeding to death while my brother faces his own death in Aberon, in your hometown which you betrayed as well! Don'tyou dare say that you do not know what I am talking about!"

"Your brother?" was all the grey-haired man could say, stupefied.

"My brother," Elrohir confirmed without offering an explanation, biting down on his lip hard in order to concentrate on the present and not allow himself to be dragged down by panic and fear. "The ranger, the one your men handed over to Gasur. The ranger who was tortured here because _you _value money more than honour or sworn allegiances you should have died to protect!"

Hurag struggled to understand what the elf was saying and finally gave up; he didn't even want to understand how this cursed race thought. He looked about himself and found that the panic that was trapped inside his chest was even intensifying. Why were there no guards here?

"You … you are completely mad!" he finally accused the elf, moving backwards even further. The dark-haired twin had pushed himself off the wall in his fury and was mirroring his movements, his eyes not leaving his face for a single second. The smile was still on his face, but by now it had lost all resemblance of humour or amusement and was nothing more than a dark, terrible grimace that sent shiver after shiver down the man's back.

"Yes," Elrohir nodded, half-distracted, as if he wasn't really paying attention to this conversation, which he probably wasn't. "Yes, in a way I probably am. Isn't it fun?"

The elf's eyes narrowed once again, and he was cocking his head slightly to the side, studying his adversary. Hurag had seen this kind of look before, and it took him a moment to remember where: On the face of a wolf, just before it had jumped at him and tried to tear his throat out.

"Ah," the man began rather ineloquently, his left hand beginning to feel for the dagger he carried in a concealed sheath in his robes, "well, there is no need for this, Master Elf! I am sure we can resolve this like civilised beings. Let's … let's not be unreasonable now!"

The dark-haired elf turned his head to fully look him in the eye, and Hurag would almost have staggered back when he saw the fury, worry and utter mercilessness in the grey depths. A cold grin spread over the fair, bruised features that held no mirth and only the promise of death.

"Oh, no," Elrohir shook his head minutely. "Please let's."

Hurag hadn't got to where he where he was now by being unobservant or unaware of what was going on around him. The promise of death that the dark grey eyes were spelling could not have been any clearer, and he needed no further proof of his intentions whatsoever. Even while the elf was still speaking, he had drawn his concealed dagger and brought it up, holding it in front of his body in the way of an experienced knife fighter.

"We will see about that, elf," he told Elrohir, apparently much emboldened now that he held a weapon himself. "Did you think that I would just stand here and allow myself to be slaughtered?"

Elrohir stopped, his eyes drawn to the knife. He wasn't really surprised about this recent development; he would have been positively astonished had Hurag been unarmed.  
"No," he answered the man's question. "No, I didn't. It makes things fairer, if nothing else, even though I doubt that you care about such things."

"Fairer!" Hurag spat contemptuously. "I was the best there ever was with a knife when I was younger, and there is still no one who can beat me with a dagger! I will cut your pretty face into ribbons, elf, and feed them to the dogs when I'm through with you!"

"Will you now?" Elrohir repeated mildly. "How interesting."

The elf's complete, unaffected calm unnerved the man, and he felt how sweat began to bead on his brow. He wiped a strand of grey, limp hair out of his face with a jerky movement of his free hand, his eyes not leaving the almost amused countenance of his adversary.

"And what now?" he asked after half a minute in which the elf hadn't made a move towards him and had only studied him with interest, as if he was a particularly interesting specimen of some sort. "What is going to happen now, elf?"

Something dark flashed to life in the dark eyes, and Hurag felt his last hopes of escape die.

"You betrayed my father's men and his chief advisor, and my men and me." Elrohir was speaking slowly and very, very clearly. "Because of you my father's warriors are dead, Lord Erestor an inch away from leaving the circles of this world, my friend dying and my brother in deadly peril." He stopped, looking at the man with an expression that was almost one of surprise. "Just _what _do you think is going to happen now?"

That was all the prompting Hurag needed. With a speed one would not have expected from someone his age, he had moved forward and brought his dagger down in a wicked, underhand swipe that had surprised almost every single one of his opponents in the past, especially when it came out of nowhere like this. To his substantial surprise, however, his blade met empty air, and he stumbled forward, almost losing his footing. A soft sound of disgust or disapproval or maybe something else entirely could be heard to his left, telling him that his opponent had moved out of the way even though all he had felt had been an almost undetectable passing of air. He had just enough time to think that no one could possibly move that fast when he felt something slap against his chest; not forcefully and not even hard enough to cause him pain, but hard enough to make him look down his chest in surprise.

There was a dark, roughly cylindrical … _something _… sticking out of his chest that did not belong there, as a small voice in his head told him very firmly. Hurag stared at the object in astonishment, his brain unable to figure out what his was, until his attention was arrested by the strange, strange, almost flowing feeling inside his breast. That, too, seemed highly strange to him, just like the fact that he could no longer stay on his feet and was slowly sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the flood. How unusual, he decided detachedly. He hadn't even realised that his back had been touching a wall.

The feeling of cold stones against his back was slowly fading, just like his puzzlement about the situation in general. It didn't seem important anymore, none of it, and all he could do was stare straight ahead without really seeing anything. His vision slowly narrowed and narrowed, and a strange, dark film was laying itself over the world, dimming light and sound and giving his surroundings a strangely peaceful air.

There was something moving close to him, at the edges of his failing vision, and a moment later the blurry face of the elf appeared in front of him, looking completely emotionless. Even while Hurag was watching, the features were losing integrity, blurring together into a formless mass. He didn't have the energy to wonder about that, either, and when an all-encompassing, undeniable darkness swept over him a moment later, he almost welcomed it.

Elrohir stayed where he was for a few more moments, kneeling in front of the dead man. Then he slowly reached for the knife that had fallen out of his hands, deciding that it was of far better quality than the one he had been using. He pushed the gleaming blade into his belt and turned back around to Hurag, looking at his empty, staring eyes without a hint of remorse, before he got back to his feet, ready to return to the battle he could still clearly hear in the background.

"Just what," he repeated quietly, shaking his head, "did you think was going to happen?"  
**  
****  
****  
**

Aragorn was kneeling in the mud, trying to ignore the chill that crept up his spine and was almost threatening to extinguish the small, feverish fire that was burning inside of him, and did his very best not to lose hope.

It wasn't easy, mind you, especially in a situation such as this one. He was clinging to hope, yes, but that was more or less only because he considered it his duty – if someone with his name gave up hope just like that, whatever would happen to the rest of the world?

The young ranger shook his head inwardly and attempted very hard to ignore this newest, very, very strange thought that had wormed its way into his brain. He didn't even wonder about these thoughts anymore, which was probably yet another, very bad sign that he was well on his way into the dark pits of madness. He liked to think that the fever was responsible, though, which was far better than the alternative.

Besides, their situation truly _was _hopeless. Aragorn gave his surroundings a quick look, not even trying to look inconspicuous for he knew that his guards were watching them like two pairs of hawks, or hobbits, or something equally sharp-eyed. He almost giggled aloud at that thought, but stopped himself just in time. Giggling in front of your enemies was most definitely something that was part of Glorfindel's "Things-a-proper-elf-lord-never-does" list, and he drew the line just there. He might smile laconically while his captors threatened him with pain, death and doom, but he did not giggle. Giggling was just too undignified.

It would also, Aragorn went on, trying to force his thoughts into some sort of order, be completely inappropriate. He was surrounded by quite a lot of men (of course it would be _men_, he added almost tiredly) who wanted to kill him and his companion, and therefore hardly a time to giggle. Said men were also in the process of breaking through the dam that was all that was separating this part of the town from gallons and gallons of ice-cold water, and the mental picture of what would happen if they actually managed to break through was enough to bring him back to his senses as if he had just been dunked into said water.

Aragorn lifted his head again which he hadn't even realised he had lowered and gave the men another surveying look, ignoring the expression of open concern on Torel's face. He had to find a way out of this, he just had to, or they would all die, Torel and him, the men who were doing this and a large part of the town's population. He didn't know if Vonar had managed to warn his father in time, but he wasn't counting on it.

He had sent the boy away more in order to protect him than because he had though that he could actually bring back help, and he therefore rather doubted that the other "building sites" would be discovered before it was too late. If Tibron hadn't already been out on the streets and had conveniently gathered … let's say, about fifty or more men, there was no chance that Hurag's men would be stopped. If the dams broke at even half of the so-called building sites, this city would be doomed. The water wouldn't wreak enough damage to actually destroy the town, but it would definitely be strong enough a flood to kill or injure hundreds or even thousands of its inhabitants. It was a blow from which Aberon would never recover, that much was certain.

Torel, who was either a very perceptive young man or had developed psychic abilities over the past few hours, gave him a long look, apparently doing his best not to let his concern show. Aragorn appreciated the sentiment, but he was an honest enough person to admit that he probably looked horrible and possibly half-dead. His clothes were stained with blood, both his own and that of other people, and he had long ago given up trying to keep track of all his injuries. It was too depressing, not to mention rather tedious by now.

"Do you think Vonar managed to get to Uncle Tibron in time?" he younger man whispered finally, tactfully not making a comment about Aragorn's physical state.

"I do not know," the ranger answered truthfully. "I hope so."

"So do I," Torel echoed his thoughts. "Gods, but so do I." He was silent for a moment, staring unseeingly at the ground, before he raised his head again and looked at the dark-haired ranger, dread and something like weary acceptance in his eyes. "This is bad, isn't it?"

Aragorn contemplated lying for a moment, but then he smiled grimly. Torel wasn't a child, he had proven that (well, even though he _ had _crashed into those boxes), and he deserved an honest answer. It was his town, after all, and he was the one who would lose the most.  
"I have rarely seen it any worse."

Torel's lips thinned at the other's answer, and he gave their guards another fiery look that should have set the hair of at least one of them aflame.  
"They will find us," he said firmly, far too firmly to be telling the truth. "They will find us, and they will find this scum who betray their own town!"

Unsurprisingly, one of the guards drew back and slammed the pommel of his sword into the young man's back, causing him to fall forward. Torel picked himself up a few moments later, shaking his head from side to side to get rid of the strange, ringing noise in his ears, and turned his head again to glare at the man that had struck him thus, apparently not very impressed and not cowed at all. For a fleeting moment, Aragorn was very proud of him, before common sense caught up with him and told him sternly that he had corrupted yet another innocent boy.

"They will not find you, boy," another guard told Torel. "And now shut up!"

"Why?" Aragorn asked, doing his best to sound reasonable, even though he had the feeling that it was wasted on the humans here. They would probably not even recognise reason if it was wrapped around their knees and tripping them up. "So that you don't have to listen to the truth?"

"No, ranger," another man said, tearing his attention away from where his colleagues were digging away at the dam and fixing annoyed, angry eyes on the younger man. "So that I don't have to listen to your blabbering. What will it take to shut you up, hmm?"

Aragorn gave him an almost pitying look, sadly shaking his head.  
"Beings millennia older than you have tried and not found the answer to that."

"I just might, I think," the man retorted, the anger in his eyes intensifying and pushing back the annoyance. "What do you think about cutting out your tongue?"

Wisely enough, Aragorn did not say anything to this and instead contemplated his bad luck and/or own stupidity. He had done it again; he had managed to infuriate one of the people who were able and willing to kill him slowly and painfully. He hadn't even done it on purpose this time – well, not entirely. It had been more in order not to think about their situation; and besides, it was the truth. The twins were always complaining that he never knew when to be silent, and had more than once said that the only thing that could keep him quiet for a longer amount of time was in fact a gag.

He was just opening his mouth to say just that when a small commotion broke out amongst the men that were working at the dam. They were setting their tools down one by one, excited and worried whispers beginning to fill the air around them. Aragorn stretched his neck as far as he could and promptly felt how a large, beefy hand clamped down on his injured left shoulder to hold him back. Dull pain spread from wounded part of his body into the rest, and Aragorn scowled at the muddy ground in front of him, annoyed more than anything else. Before all this was over he would kill this stupid guard, or at least break his hands.

He was still contemplating that strangely appealing idea when the source of the unrest skidded to a halt next to the men's leader, who did not look pleased at all about the interruption. In fact, Aragorn decided coolly, Addric looked rather angry about the whole thing, giving the newly-arrived young man dark glares. Aragorn looked at the brown-haired man closely and quickly decided that he had never seen him before. His clothes were obviously of good quality even though they were simple enough, and he was probably as old as Torel or a little older, but that was all that could be gauged from his appearance. He was being followed by one of the men the others had posted as guards, but he made no move to restrain the younger man in any way.

Wonderful, Aragorn thought sourly. This probably meant that reinforcements were on the way or something like that.

Torel, too, was staring at the newcomer, but he looked shocked rather than distressed.  
"Damil."

"What?" Aragorn asked softly, giving their guards a quick look to ensure that they, too, were more interested in what was going on at the dam than in keeping them from talking.

"Damil," Torel repeated, still sounding surprised. "He is the son of Neran, a councilman and one of Hurag's supporters. I … I didn't think that he was involved in all this."

Aragorn gave the slightly younger man a sympathetic look.  
"Is he your friend?"

"No," Torel shook his head. "He was, when we were both younger, but not anymore. We are too different now that we've grown up, and our families are at odds as well. I wouldn't have been surprised if Neran had been part of this, but he … well, he's a hothead, but this…?"

"I am sorry," Aragorn said, feeling very helpless.

"Don't be," Torel told him with a small smile. "Things are rarely as they seem; that is something you taught me."

"I wish I could have taught you a worthier lesson," Aragorn retorted seriously. "Something more honourable than the necessity to distrust and fear everybody around you."

Torel shook his head, looking as helpless as Aragorn felt, but never got the chance to answer, because Addric and Damil came over to them, trailed by the guard who had escorted the younger man here. As the three other men drew closer, the guard's ungentle hands once again clamped down on his shoulders, holding him firmly in place and sending a streak of fire through his upper body. What did this man think he would do, Aragorn asked himself dazedly and tugged ineffectively at his bonds, bite Addric in the kneecaps?

Next to him, Torel stiffened slightly when Addric and Damil came to a stop in front of them, but he controlled himself and only nodded ironically at his former friend.  
"Damil. I wish I could be more surprised."

"I could say the same, Torel," the brown-haired youth retorted, narrowing his eyes in obvious displeasure. "But it doesn't surprise me that you're throwing in your lot with the likes of _hi__m_. You're becoming more and more like your foolish uncle."

Aragorn only raised an eyebrow when the other man gestured at him. If he had meant to insult him, he hadn't done a very good job. Torel, however, seemed to take offence in his place, which was actually rather touching.

"At least my uncle or his guests don't break the laws of hospitality or try to murder innocent men, women and children!" he hissed at the other. "Have you thought about that, Damil? Have you _thought _about what you are doing? Lords above, my family is here, my brother and my sister, my mother and my cousin! You remember them, do you not, Damil? My cousin with whom we played, my sister whose pigtails we pulled, my little brother who was always too small to keep up with us and my mother who would feed us sweets? You would see them dead, all of them, to satisfy your own greed and that of _Hurag_?"

Damil paled at that as if he had been hit in the face, but before he could retort anything, Addric had taken a step forward, annoyance and simmering anger radiating off him. It was clear that he had reached the ends of his patience.

"Enough of this!" he growled, glaring at Damil and Torel. "I am not interested in your petty arguments!" Damil shut his mouth again without saying anything, and he went on, turning to Aragorn, "Whom have you told about our plan, ranger? Tell me!"

Aragorn blinked at him in obvious confusion.  
"What?"

Addric growled again and stepped forward, taking the younger man by the scruff of his neck and pulling him to his feet. Aragorn could hardly stand after having been forced to kneel in the cold mud for so long, and the pain the sudden movement and the man's ungentle grip caused were almost enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"Whom did you tell about our plans, boy?" he hissed, shaking the weakened ranger like a dog would shake a rat. "Tell me!"

"I … don't know … what … you are … talking about!" Aragorn ground out with difficulty in-between shakes.

Addric's hand tightened, threatening to cut off his air supply, and he glared at him furiously.  
"Of course you do, ranger!" he told him angrily. "Two of the building sites have been overrun by unidentified men! There are no soldiers in the city, so you must have told someone else! Whom?"

Aragorn would almost have grinned in relief. Vonar _had _managed to get back to his father and warn him, then. Tibron must have gathered some men and taken action, just as he had hoped he would, and they had already managed to take over two of the "building sites". He felt how a grin once again tugged at the corners of his mouth. Two out of seven, that wasn't too bad. All they needed was a bit more time, and then…

He was brought out of his thoughts by an exceptionally hard shake, and he forced his uncooperative eyes to blink in order to focus on Addric. The man's face had turned a rather interesting, purplish colour by now, and Aragorn idly wondered when and if he would suffer a stroke. Suddenly there was something bright gleaming in his field of vision, and in the second he felt the sharp steel of Addric's knife bite into the soft skin of his throat, he decided that now would be the perfect time for it.

"I ask for the last time, ranger," Addric said, his voice barely controlled. "Two of the sites have already been discovered. Two! Do you honestly think I would believe this to be a mere coincident, a carelessness on my men's part? Whom did you tell about all this? Did you tell them about all the building sites or just a few? What did you tell them?" Aragorn looked at him without saying a word, and Addric tightened his grip, dragging the bound ranger closer. The knife pressed down harder, drawing blood now and leaving little doubt in anyone's mind about what he was threatening to do. "Last chance, boy. To whom did you talk about this?"

Aragorn looked back at him steadily, his eyes hard and his face expressionless. They kept staring at each other for a while, silver-grey eyes boring into brown ones, and finally Aragorn smiled thinly, a smile full of disgust and loathing.  
"You can go to Angband for all I care, Addric. I won't tell you anything."

Addric's grip tightened even more and his face turned even more purple, something Aragorn would have thought impossible mere moments ago and which just couldn't be healthy. Aragorn was dreamily thinking about all the blood vessels that must be in imminent danger of rupturing, having long ago given up on trying to draw breath into his lungs, when something long and dark slammed into back of one of Torel's guards, throwing the man off balance and causing him to fall backwards into his companion. Aragorn forced himself not to lose consciousness as he stared at the long, still quivering crossbow shaft that protruded from the man's back, trying to make sense of it all.

It took him quite a bit longer than usual to actually work out what was going on, and he finally raised his eyes to look at Addric, who was staring unbelievingly at his fallen guard.  
"Your … answer," he whispered around the steely fingers that were making breathing almost impossible.

Addric looked at him then, impotent fury in his eyes that he could hardly see because of the dark spots that were beginning to fill his vision. The brown-haired man's mouth twisted into a snarl even as the first shouts of alarm and pain could be heard from behind them, and he pressed down the knife even harder. Blood was beginning to flow from the cut now in earnest, colouring the front of his shirt an even darker colour, and Aragorn sighed wearily, not even knowing if he was doing it out loud or not.

He probably shouldn't have said that, either.

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_pen-neth - young one  
mellon nín - my friend  
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**So, at least Erestor is safe - or is he? Mhahahaha! Okay, enough of that. •tries to get her alter ego back under control• To sum it up: Erestor is kind of safe, Glorfindel is ... displeased, shall we say, Elrohir is looking for Elladan, Elladan is looking for a lot of people, there is no sign of Celylith or his adorable bat, Aragorn is in deep trouble and Legolas ... yes, what about Legolas? •shakes head• Gods, but I am evil. At least one bad guy is down, that's something, right? •ducks swords etc.• Well, be that as it may, the rest of this oh-so-funny little battle is coming soon. I am not saying when (I have learned my lesson), but after my exams. Not specific enough? Well, I don't know more either, sorry. Reviews of any kind are, of course, always appreciated. Thanks a lot.**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Okay, I have decided to stick to the whole group-email thing for a while, since it's been working so well. We don't really have internet access at the moment (the wireless net we were using threw us out), or rather, it goes off and on, so the mail might be a bit late. Shouldn't be longer than a day or so. Thank you very much for your patience, and your reviews, of course!**

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So, at least Erestor is safe - or is he? Mhahahaha! Okay, enough of that. •tries to get her alter ego back under control• To sum it up: Erestor is kind of safe, Glorfindel is ... displeased, shall we say, Elrohir is looking for Elladan, Elladan is looking for a lot of people, there is no sign of Celylith or his adorable bat, Aragorn is in deep trouble and Legolas ... yes, what about Legolas? •shakes head• Gods, but I am evil. At least one bad guy is down, that's something, right? •ducks swords etc.• Well, be that as it may, the rest of this oh-so-funny little battle is coming soon. I am not saying when (I have learned my lesson), but after my exams. Not specific enough? Well, I don't know more either, sorry. Reviews of any kind are, of course, always appreciated. Thanks a lot.**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Okay, I have decided to stick to the whole group-email thing for a while, since it's been working so well. We don't really have internet access at the moment (the wireless net we were using threw us out), or rather, it goes off and on, so the mail might be a bit late. Shouldn't be longer than a day or so, just until the next "window" comes along. Thank you very much for your patience, and your reviews, of course!**


	36. Come Hell Or High Water

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**Okay, guys, here's the deal. I'm leaving for the airport right now; I'm going to Israel for a week. My Israeli flat mate somehow managed to apply for his visa in the wrong way and has now to go back to do it all again. So another flat mate and I decided we would go with him and visit him. I just hope we don't manage to get into any sort of trouble over there!**

**Because of this, I have very little time and have to make this short. I know, I know, your hearts bleed. I did, btw, pass all my exams, which is a miracle if I ever saw one. I don't have time to reply to reviews right now (sorry sorry sorry!), but I will as soon as I get back. I'll try FF-net's new system, just to see if it works. So, please be a bit patient; I thought you'd rather have a chapter before I left!**

**I just re-read the whole chapter (we got back from Israel all right, even though they managed to lose our luggage between Tel Aviv and Madrid, don't ask me how), so now it should be a little easier to read! Thank you for putting up with this version for so long!  
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**So, here's the last part of the battle. Just a quick little thing, really, only 45 pages or so. I hope that will keep you happy for a while! Everybody makes an appearance, I think ... hmm, except for Celylith's bat - yes, and you're right, poor Erestor. But don't worry, both of them will be in the next chapter. I promise. •g•**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 36

He was getting annoyed. No, that was not it; he was getting _very _annoyed.

And he had every reason to be, Elladan concluded, his inner voice sounding more than just a little bit angry. He was surrounded by people who wanted to kill him, the same people also wanted to kill his warriors, he hadn't seen Celylith in ages, the same went for his father, he didn't know if Glorfindel had found Erestor or if either of them was even still alive, they didn't seem to be able to break through the men's lines, and, to top everything off nicely, he didn't know where Elrohir was.

Elladan's countenance grew even darker, something an objective observer would have though highly unlikely at the very least. Elrohir should know better than to disappear like this, shouldn't he? He was, after all, supposedly the more reasonable of the two of them, the one who always – well, almost always, he amended quickly – thought before acting, the one who was more diplomatic and careful and controlled. He should not just disappear into thin air, and in the middle of a battle at that!

'Just you wait until Glorfindel hears about this, little brother,' he thought, knowing full well what an irrational thought it really was. 'He will have your hide for this.'

If Glorfindel was still alive, of course, the dark-haired twin added scathingly, ducking under a blow one of the soldiers had aimed at his head with a deft movement no man would ever be able to imitate, no matter how long or hard he trained. Giving the human a look so icy that it should have frozen him on the spot, Elladan lashed out with his sword, his blade finding a weakness in his enemy's defences with an ease that looked almost effortless. The steel bit deeply into the man's side, and he was already beginning to collapse with a pained cry, his weapon falling from suddenly nerveless fingers, when the twin wrenched the sword back out, distantly aware of the fact that he shouldn't feel like this, so completely cold and utterly unaffected. These were humans, his brother's kin, _his _kin, for Elbereth's sake, not orcs or other minions of the Dark One! He should feel _something_, some swell of pity or mercy, no matter how small and faint, but he did not. With a small stab of shock he realised that he did not like this feeling, this cool, aloft ruthlessness that was directed at members of the Second People, at beings who were children of Ilúvatar just like him, but he couldn't help it anymore than he could stop himself from worrying about Estel and Legolas and Elrohir or from taking another breath.

He didn't even have to analyse his feelings to find out why he felt like this: These humans had hurt his family. They had killed his fellow warriors, they had hurt his brothers and his friends and his teacher, and that was something he did not forgive, ever. He had once been told that, of all of Elrond's children, he had inherited most of the Noldorin blood that both of his parents shared. The blood of Finwë's people ran in his father's veins, still strong and untamed after all these ages, and he, too, had inherited the sudden surges of feelings, of pride and vengeance and the inability to back down from anything. Princes of the Noldor they were, and there were things their blood would not let them forgive or forget.

That thought brought him back to Glorfindel, who fit that description almost perfectly even despite his obvious Vanyarin heritage. He knew that the golden-haired elf lord's heart was screaming for vengeance, for retribution for what had been done to all their people and especially to Erestor. And that was just the thing, the twin went on, not even noticing that he was automatically moving with the warriors that were flanking him left and right, trying to worm his way through the men's defences. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't worry about Glorfindel. Why ever for? The elf had survived things no other being had – elf or mortal – including his own death, and he knew very well how to look after himself, return home and at the same time make sure that his adversaries didn't.

_Under normal circumstances_, of course, and there was the rub: These were no normal circumstances. There was an cast-iron, incontestable-so-Eru-help-you truth that Glorfindel had drummed into their heads time and again and until they'd choked on it: Never to allow their anger or hate or thirst for revenge to make their decisions for them, because, "that way, _pin-nith_, you will inevitably lose, in so many more ways than one."

Glorfindel was known for many things but only very rarely for his subtlety. Especially after they had come somewhat back to their senses, about a hundred years after their mother had set sail, and had stopped trying to get themselves killed on their crusade to kill every single orc ever spawned, Glorfindel had spent about a year telling them these few words over and over again, probably in an attempt to keep them from doing any more capitally stupid things. He'd had a point, too; it had been he who'd had to drag them back to their father after that small incident involving orcs, wargs, poisoned arrows, a cliff and the inevitable fall _off _said cliff that had finally impressed upon them the fact that what they were doing would help no one and that they would only die an ugly and thoroughly meaningless death.

Elladan almost smiled when he remembered that day when the Rangers had escorted them back to Rivendell – if Arahad, the son of Aravorn, the then-chieftain of the _Dúnedain_, hadn't found them, he was quite sure that neither he nor Elrohir would have survived that particular night. The chieftain's son had found them, though, and so they had met with a party sent from Imladris, consisting of a group of warriors, Glorfindel and Erestor who'd had his adventurous time of the _yén_. He could still clearly see the look of longsuffering, not so good-natured patience that had been visible on Glorfindel's face while he had listened to Erestor talk excitedly about one thing or other…

And that was the problem, Elladan concluded darkly, wrenching his thoughts away from another memory from these days, a memory of his twin lying pale, bloody and deathly still in his arms. Erestor was Glorfindel's friend, probably his best friend after his father. Even though they seemed to want to kill each other on three days out of four, they were old friends, and as devoted and loyal as they came. If something serious had happened to his father's chief advisor, if he … if he was dead or seriously injured, Glorfindel would rush off and deal out the vengeance these people here so richly deserved. He wouldn't care what happened to him in the process, wouldn't care whom he would have to kill to achieve his goals or if he himself was killed in the process.

Elladan couldn't bear that thought, almost as little as he could bear the thought of losing Elrohir in this stupid, basically unimportant battle. He couldn't bear losing yet another mentor, another member of his extended family that he'd known for all his life. And, almost more importantly, he knew that his father wouldn't be able to bear it. If he were to lose Glorfindel, the only close friend except for Círdan who still bound him to the world of his youth, the world of Beleriand and Elros and, to a lesser degree, Maglor, and later of Lindon and Gil-galad, when he had been but the High King's herald and friend and hadn't had to carry the burdens he was carrying now, if he were to lose Glorfindel who understood all this without him having to say a single word… Elladan stopped that train of thought right then and there. He wasn't ready to even contemplate the consequences of such an event, nor did he think he ever would be.

So, he concluded decidedly, his only option was to prevent all this. He would find his stupid, reckless, _idiotic_ twin whom he would have a little talk with once all of this was over, and then he would find his father and Glorfindel and make sure that neither of them did anything stupid. They would probably resent his thoughts if they knew about them, but no matter what they kept telling him and his siblings, namely that they were millennia old elf lord and therefore long past a stage where one did anything unwise, he _knew _them. They were very capable of doing reckless or even stupid things when the situation called for it.

He very much hoped that it didn't call for it now. If one of them did something stupid, it should be him.

Elladan smirked openly, feeling very pleased indeed with his realisation. It looked rather worrying, especially if you asked the men he was facing. For a moment, they looked quite tempted to actually back away to gain some sort of protection and support from their comrades, but then they seemed to remember that _they _were the last line of defence and reluctantly stood their ground. The twin's annoyance flared up again, and he gripped the pommel of his sword more tightly. People should know when they were beaten, shouldn't they?

A moment later he was taught that one should never – ever! – say something like that, because Acalith's soldiers went on teaching him that they were, in fact, far from beaten. Even while Elladan was still contemplating how he should manage to break through the men's lines once and for all – he was getting thoroughly tired of this stand-off – and how he should manage that with the few warriors that he had, a tingly feeling was beginning to creep down his back, as if a host of tiny spiders were crawling up and down his spine.

He knew that feeling, knew it far too well, in fact. But even while was trying to force his suddenly inexplicably sluggish limbs into motion, he knew that he would be too late, just as he knew that he was in immediate danger. Still he was moving, unwilling to just stand there and allow himself to be killed/seriously wounded/maimed, when he felt himself being grabbed by the arm and pulled sideways. A swift, intense pain burned its way over his other upper arm, almost making him drop his sword, and he watched almost in slow motion how a knife flew past him, leaving nothing more than a broad red line on his arm in its wake. He was dimly wondering if it was the shock of knowing how close he had come to having that knife imbedded in his chest or his elven senses that allowed him to actually watch this, and was frantically preparing himself for facing this new opponent, when several things registered in his mind at once. One, he had been gripped from behind, meaning that it could only have been one of his men, and two, the person who had gripped him had pulled him _out _of harm's way.

The dark-haired elf sighed inwardly when he heard a good-humoured, somewhat derisive snort behind him, and if he hadn't been fighting a battle, he might have closed his eyes. The words he knew were coming could be heard a moment later, sounding dimly over the overwhelming noise of the fight.

"Really, Elrondion," a wry voice commented, managing to sound nonchalant, as if its owner was taking a stroll through sunlit meadows. "Must I always be there to save your and your brothers' lives?"

Elladan watched two of his warriors move past him in an attempt to shield him from the men's attacks, having apparently seen what had happened, and so he allowed himself the luxury of actually turning around and gave the person who had just saved him from grievous injury or death a dark look.  
"Don't you have anything better to do than annoy me, wood-elf?" he asked, almost having to shout to make himself heard. "Where have you been?"

Celylith merely shrugged and wiped a strand of long, silver hair out of his face that stuck to his cheek with dried blood. Elladan scanned his friend's face for wounds that might be the origin of said blood, but the Silvan elf seemed thankfully uninjured, except for a small, bleeding cut to his left outer thigh, where he probably hadn't been quick enough to avoid a pike or spear.

"Oh, over there," Celylith replied and pointed over to the right, his blood-encrusted blade gleaming faintly in the flickering, unsteady light that illuminated the courtyard. Elladan's eyes followed his friend's sword and came to rest on a pile of dead or wounded humans that were littering the ground in front of the men's swiftly shrinking battle line. "And over there," the silver-haired elf went on, pointing into the opposite direction and at another pile of humans, "and also over there for a while."

Elladan turned back from yet another pile of still bodies and raised an eyebrow.  
"You haven't had too much luck breaking through, have you?"

"About as much as you," Celylith retorted heatedly, giving the twin a look that could only be called arctic. "Namely none at all, the Valar curse these humans!"

"True," Elladan admitted, more or less good-naturedly. He understood Celylith's testiness. He shouldn't have provoked the other elf in the first place, but then again, he was _not _in a good mood. The same could be said about Celylith, he guessed. "The humans are not very co-operative, are they?"

"I can't blame them," Celylith hissed angrily. "If I get my hands on them, I will kill them."

"You already have."

"Not enough of them," the other shook his head sharply. "By the Valar, but not enough of them, not yet." Elladan refrained from asking just when it would be enough, and Celylith gave the wavering lines of the men a calculating look. "Why don't we try this again?"

"With pleasure," Elladan nodded amiably, already moving forward through the shifting lines. "The first one to find Legolas or Elrohir may lecture them on their idiocy and recklessness."

"Just watch me," Celylith retorted, following in Elladan's wake. "I don't really know whom I am angrier with, these people here or Legolas for getting himself into this kind of situation." He pushed one of the elven warriors to the side and lashed out with his sword, managing to find a hole in the human soldier's defences and exploit it, to his satisfaction and the human's profound displeasure that was quickly followed by unconsciousness. "Or for leaving me behind in the first place," the Silvan Elf went on, slashing at another soldier, "or for believing that he could go anywhere in that ranger's company without getting himself cut to pieces."

Elladan thought about chastising the other elf for talking about his little brother like this – he was a protective brother if nothing else and always ready to take offence for his siblings – but decided against it. He was rather busy fighting off a human who was very determined to try and cut his head off while simultaneously trying to direct a part of his warriors around the humans, trying to attack their flank, and besides, Celylith was right. He tried to imagine Aragorn going anywhere without being captured, wounded, tortured or maimed, but even his imagination – which was, as even he admitted freely, quite formidable – balked at that.

He was still thinking about that – he didn't think that anybody would _ever _be able to imagine that! – when the two human soldiers immediately in front of him parted (or were rather forced to part, one by a sword that got mysteriously stuck in his thigh and the other by the fact that an elf had taken a hold of his sleeve and was swinging him into a group of his colleagues who were crowding behind him), to reveal the figure of the chestnut-haired, middle-sized man whom Elladan had several long minutes ago identified as the leader of the soldiers. He was reasonably sure that he was not Gasur, which was the only reason why he hadn't already tried to send at least a dagger his way, if not a sword or maybe a stone that weighed a ton. Right now, the human was apparently trying to command his men, waving his sword around in wide, increasingly frustrated-looking circles.

Elladan's eyes darkened as he looked upon the man. He might not be Gasur, but he was apparently high enough in the chain of command to make this infinitely more personal. And, the elf added to himself almost maliciously, he was just alone enough for him to see if he couldn't … well, have a little chat with him, wasn't he? For example about his past deeds, whether or not he regretted them, his preferred method of dying, and so on.

Elladan frowned inwardly and revised his earlier statement. He didn't really care whether or not the man regretted what he'd done; it wouldn't change anything.

To get to the officer was actually a lot easier than he would have thought. Two quick steps forward and some rather fancy swordplay later, Elladan had pushed his way through the men, steadfastly ignoring the rather indignant calls of his fellow warriors. Judging by the inflection of their voices, it sounded a lot as if they were cursing him and his stubbornness, and the rather interesting Silvan oath he was sure was somehow connected to his heritage, a bunch of dwarves and never-ending pain had probably come from Celylith's lips. Elladan wasn't feeling overly affronted. At least that blasted wood-elf was staying in one spot and somewhere where he – or, in this case, his warriors – could keep an eye on him.

He knew Legolas, after all, long enough to say that he knew him very well, and he knew that the prince would have a fit if he found out that he, Elladan, had allowed his dearest childhood friend to be cut into pieces. Oh yes, he added darkly, even if half-dead and more than four-fifths unconscious, Legolas would still make a fuss about it, that much was sure.

That particular line of thought only served to intensify his already quite vivid homicidal urges, and with a snarl on his lips that seemed to be completely out of place on such fair features and at the same time terribly, unquestionably fitting he scattered the last remnants of resistance that the men around the officer tried to put up. The humans were surprised, not having anticipated anyone trying to break through on their own, and were no match for Elladan's superior elven strength, speed and agility that were only fuelled by his rage. Within seconds, the men closest to the chestnut-haired officer were dead or incapacitated, and the men to their right were far too busy trying to keep up the line that was crumbling ever faster to even try and come to their superior's aid.

It took the man actually some time to see the elf that had managed to push his way through his lines, but when he finally did, he was by no means surprised. Reod sighed softly and very, very wearily. He had expected someone to break through a long time ago – the soldiers and guards were fighting with the strength of men who had certain death in front of their eyes, but these thrice-damned elves were simply too fast and too resilient.

He had seen them move so quickly that he would have been able to swear that their forms blurred ever so slightly around the edges. He had witnessed with his own eyes how one of the elves had received a wound to his side, a wound that would have incapacitated a human or killed him outright, and how he had shrugged it off as if it had been nothing but a scratch, an inconvenience that was beneath his attention. Doom and death were closing in around him and his men, the circle tightening around them inexorably, and he knew that very well.

Reod gripped his sword more tightly as he whirled around to face the lone, dark-haired elf who was slowly walking up to him, always keeping an eye on his surroundings and wary for a possible ambush. This was all Gasur's fault, Gasur with the cold, empty look on his face and the soulless eyes. Reod tried to straighten his shoulders and not let the far too emotionless-looking elf see how deeply desperate and terrified he was. He had been able to do that, before Gasur and his menacing, insane presence that seemed to rob him of strength and courage, but now, when he was desperately fumbling to find these traits, it seemed that they had forever moved beyond his reach.

It was another thing for which he hated Gasur with a new, burning passion, and another reason for wanting to rip out his ruthless heart, something for which he would never have the courage.

That realisation hurt far more than he would have thought, no matter how used he'd got to the general thought over the past few weeks.

The elf in question was apparently not very interested in small talk or any other kind of talk, and before Reod had even had time to get his sword fully in a ready position, the dark-haired being was upon him, aforementioned death and doom radiating off him so clearly that the part of the chestnut-haired man that was still capable of reasonable though was actually surprised that he couldn't see it. Only a wild, desperate swing whose success was owned more to luck than to skill saved him from an immediate and rather messy death, and Reod managed to stumble back, out of the elf's immediate reach.

Elladan merely looked at him in that cold, unforgiving way that would have impressed even one of the Nine and slowly followed the human, pushing two more guards aside in the process. The two men gave the elf's face and especially the look on it a single glance before they collectively decided that Captain Reod was on his own and that they already had more than enough trouble on their hands, thank you very much.

The dark-haired elf and the man stared at each other for a second, cold indifference on the one and barely veiled fear on the other face.

"So," Elladan finally began calmly, even though he was anything but. He knew very well that he was cut off and was already beginning to curse his impulsiveness. "What are you, a lieutenant, or a commander maybe?" He cocked his head to the side to scrutinise the man's torn, bloody uniform. "Or even a captain?"

Reod swallowed almost painfully and tried not to react, only to see the satisfied sparkle in the elf's eyes a moment later. He ground his teeth, knowing that he had fallen right into the trap, and forced himself to concentrate. The elf would want to distract him, to keep him off balance for the inevitable attack. Dark Ones, it was what he would have done, if he hadn't been so completely and utterly paralysed with fear.

"Does it matter to you, elf?" he asked tightly, working hard to keep a tremor out of his voice.

Elladan smiled at that, a thin, cold smile that made him look even more dangerous.  
"No," he shook his head while he took a careful step to the left. "No, it doesn't. It makes no difference in the end, does it?"

Reod swallowed again, wishing unrealistically for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Anything was better than waiting for his death, for waiting for this elf to make up his mind, tire of this game and kill him.

"I knew that you would come. I told them; I counselled caution." He fell silent, realising that that wasn't really true. He had been too afraid of Acalith and Gasur and even Salir to protest or make his thoughts known. He shook his head inwardly and continued; there was no reason to let the elf know that, now was there? "No one listened to me. I knew that your twice- and thrice-cursed kind would come for the councillor." He shook his head, this time openly, and spat out in a gesture of disgust and frustration. "One shouldn't go around getting involved with you elves. You get nothing but trouble for it."

Elladan's thin smile widened a little, becoming even more fearsome, if such a thing was even possible.  
"So you do, human," he retorted coldly. "So you do. Tell me, though, where is your fellow captain, Gasur? We have a score to settle, he and I."

The chestnut-haired man's face twisted into a contemptuous grimace that looked almost as disgusted and full of loathing as Elladan's.  
"I have no idea." He shook his head sharply. "Probably close to the gates, trying to escape." He fell silent for half a second, and then added, a part of him feeling startled at his audacity after so many months of being afraid of his colleague, "It would be so like him."

Elladan shrugged and moved in on the man, quite effectively trapping him against the wooden construction of the scaffold. For a moment he was surprised by that; he hadn't realised that the battle line had already shifted that far.  
"It is of no consequence. We will find him, and not even the Valar will be able to help him then." He turned his head slightly to give the man in front of him an assessing look. "Or you, for that matter."

The small gesture, nothing more than a slight inclination of the dark head, was enough to send Reod into something very closely resembling a panic.  
"I … I didn't to anything, to any of them!" he cried out, vainly trying to back away further. He didn't even know why he'd been so afraid of Gasur; the younger man had nothing, but _nothing_, on this elf. "It wasn't me, it was Gasur!"

The twin's eyes narrowed at that, and the merciless light shining in them became even darker and more threatening.  
"You saw it; you helped him," he told the captain emotionlessly, as coldly and composedly as if they were discussing nothing but the weather. "You are as dead as he is."

Reod's mouth opened and closed while he struggled for words that just wouldn't come, making him look more than a little bit like big, frightened fish out of water. He had nothing to retort to that and knew that, in some strange, in his eyes altogether unfair way, he did probably deserve this. It was as his mother had told him so many years ago: Elves were not of this world, at least not in the same way that men, dwarves or even orcs were, and the Gods didn't look kindly on people who killed them. This was their revenge, their justice, and wasn't it (in an equally strange, unfair way) oddly fitting that it would be meted out by one of their kind?

He didn't have any more time to think about this, for suddenly the elf's sword was there, long and gleaming and oh-so-deadly. He managed to dodge or block the first few blows, but knew very well that it was a state of being that couldn't – or wouldn't – last long. Sure enough, after ten seconds, the elf's sword found a hole in his defences and sliced into his ribcage. The pain was so intense that he let go of his sword without a second thought, paralysing him in its intensity, and by the time he had managed to fight his way through the strange, dark mists that had come out of nowhere and were threatening to envelop him, he found himself on his knees in front of the dark-haired elf, looking up into the grey eyes that looked at him so coldly that they might as well have been dark, polished pebbles.

"Nothing but trouble," he repeated softly to himself, feeling how the fear that had been tearing at his insides was slowly fading. Fear was only a body's way of warning you of danger and threats, and his fear had probably decided to give up in face of overwhelming odds. "The whole lot of you."

There were words forming on his tongue, a plea for the elf to spare his life, but Reod bit them back resolutely. He might have lost any kind of personal honour at the very latest when he had allowed himself to be cowed by that ruthless, insane sparkle in Gasur's eyes, but he would not add to his shame by begging an elf – an elf! – for his life.

"Finish it, elf," he said hoarsely, staring up at the tall being with tired eyes. "Don't play with me, Great Ones above, and finish it."

Elladan looked down on the defeated man, too many emotions fighting within him to be able to identify all of them. His fingers were slowly curling around the hilt of the blade he held high above his head, tightening reflexively as hatred and anger and pain were threatening to blot out everything else, but before he could do anything, a wordless shout behind him made him turn his head around sharply. He turned just in time to see the humans' line crumble and his men surge forward, at the front Isál who was looking decidedly worried under all that blood that clung to his face (none of it his own) and Celylith, who looked angry and annoyed more than anything else.

The first men were beginning to crowd around him, but none of them made a threatening move. All of them were far too intent on reaching the safety of the house or, in the case of the braver souls, of their comrades who were moving in to close the gap that had been torn into their lines. Elladan turned back around with an expression on his face that was almost as annoyed as Celylith's, seeing that the chestnut-haired officer hadn't moved an inch. He looked almost as if he thought that he deserved his fate, which would have been a rare display of reasonability for an inhabitant of this town.

"Oh, for crying out loud," the twin muttered under his breath and brought his sword down, the pommel connecting with the man's skull with a very satisfactory thump. He watched the man collapse where he was kneeling and whirled around, pushing his way through the fleeing humans to rejoin his men. "You're getting soft," he told himself quietly, only to shake his head a second later in paradoxical near-outrage. "Did he really think I would cut down an unarmed man?"

The thought that it had been a near, a very near thing flittered through his head, but Elladan pushed it aside, deciding that now was not the time to deal with the moral implications of all this. He would have time for that later, when and if he got out of this alive. There was also, he added silently to himself, the very real chance that he would die by some sort of friendly fire, if being strangled by an ally qualified as that. When he drew closer to his men, Celylith's hand shot out and the wood-elf grabbed him by the arm, almost spinning him around. Isál looked more than willing to do the same, but the captain seemed to remember his position, Elladan's and the fact that one should never manhandle a son of Elrond when the elf lord was anywhere close by.

"What in the name of Oromë himself do you think you're doing, Elladan?" the silver-haired elf hissed at him, stepping to the side to let some of the elven warriors pass. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? How would I ever explain his to your father? Or to your brothers, or to Legolas? Tell me, how?"

Elladan shrugged off the other's hand, scowling.

"Coming from an elf who single-handedly tried to break through their lines – without a single person to help him! – that does sound hilarious, doesn't it?" He turned to Isál, looking for support. "Doesn't it?" Isál merely made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and shrugged elaborately, apparently unwilling to get involved in this. It was definitely an intelligent choice. Elladan turned back to the fair-haired elf. "Well, it does."

Celylith merely made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a growl, but apparently decided to let matters rest, which was quite a testimony to his intelligence.  
"You let him live?" was all the wood-elf wanted to know in the end, giving the fallen human captain a malevolent look.

Elladan turned around to focus on the man who was lying on the ground where he'd fallen, blood still seeping slowly from his wound.  
"If he survives until all this is over, then yes." He turned back to look at Celylith. "I have killed enough of them already; I will not start killing the helpless."

"Even if they deserve it?"

"Even then."

Elladan's answer was very quick and very firm, and Celylith's dark grimace slowly faded and he nodded his head.  
"Very well."

The silver-haired elf was about to say something else, but before he could formulate a single word, Elladan had thrown himself forward, barrelling into him and almost knocking him off his feet. An indignant remark was already on Celylith's lips when a swishing sound could be heard, and a long blur passed by his head, only inches away from his face. Celylith was a wood-elf, after all, and needed only half a second to figure out that an arrow had just passed through the exact space his head had occupied a mere second ago.

If Elladan hadn't pushed him out of the way, he would be very, very dead right now.

The elven twin in question seemed to know that as well, for he let go of his friend, shouted a few orders at his men and turned around, an expression on his face that even an objective person would have called smug at the very least. "Really, Celythramirion," he said mildly, repeating Celylith's earlier words, "must I always be there to save your life?"

Celylith didn't answer, having whirled around to face the new threat. Elladan's opinion, however, was that he simply didn't want to acknowledge that he had needed to be saved by a Noldo – and from an arrow of all things! Wood-elves were funny like that. A moment later, however, Celylith turned around, and the look of barely controlled panic and horror on his face was enough to let Elladan's grin fade into nothing.

"The archers." Celylith's voice was emotionless, cold, and tinged with a slight hint of fear that could seldom be heard in the wood-elf's voice.

Elladan quirked an eyebrow at the Silvan elf's words. It had been a stray arrow, probably sent their way by one of the few archers that had managed to survive their initial assault unscathed, so what about it? He shrugged inwardly and was already half-turning back to the battle. They had pushed their way through the men's lines and had managed to get to the scaffold, but the humans had reinforced their lines and were throwing all they had at them – which was, admittedly, not too much. They were close to ending this, especially now that he could see his father's warriors press in on the soldiers from the flank, and he had to force himself not to run off to find his wayward twin. In short, he was not in the mood to deal with a cryptic wood-elf.

"If you would but move, _mellon nín_, they would find it much harder to target you."

Celylith shook his head, an almost wild gleam in his eyes, and grasped his arm, his other hand pointing up, at the roofs of the buildings that surrounded them.  
"No, Elladan! _The archers_!"

Elladan's eyes followed his friend's fingers, and it took him only a moment to realise what the other elf was talking about. Another moment later, the cold, icy fingers of fear that he knew so well reached into his chest and wrapped themselves around his heart, and he had to remind himself to breathe, momentarily too shocked for such a mundane action.

There were archers on the roofs, to both sides of the main house. Elladan could have hit himself. That was why the men had tried to keep them busy with such blind, narrow-minded persistence; they had been buying their comrades time to reach the roofs. The arrow that had almost killed Celylith must have been an accident, a case of a young recruit or an overly nervous soldier releasing his projectile before he had been authorised. The men were kneeling on the flat parts of the roofs that had probably deliberately constructed for just such a case, and were taking aim carefully.

Elladan needed only a second to take this all in, and even less to start moving. Whirling back around to his men, he shouted an order, open, undisguised fear making his voice harsh.   
"Archers! Find cover, now! Archers, on the roof!"

The elven warriors didn't have to be told twice. Elladan's warning had come just in time, and by the time the first arrows were being released, most elves had dashed for cover, most of them behind the scaffold. One or two, however, weren't quite fast enough, and they fell as the arrows found their marks. Elladan, who had dropped to the ground even while he had been shouting his warning, gritted his teeth as he heard their muffled exclamations of pain, guilt worming its way into his heart. If he hadn't been so busy walking the path of vengeance, if he hadn't been so concerned about Elrohir, he would have noticed that something was wrong!

Keeping his head down and only raising it to give his surroundings a quick look, he nodded at Celylith, who was lying on the ground next to him, white fingers already wrapped around the polished wood of his bow.

"Take them out!" he called, his voice rising strong and clear about the noises of the battle. He rose to his knees, looking around for the part of his men that had brought their bows. "Take them out! Clear the roofs!"

Celylith was already on his feet, standing tall and proud and without even a hint of cover, as if daring the men to take a shot at him. He was notching and releasing arrows almost faster than Elladan's eyes could follow – even though he would never admit that, especially not to him – which, as far as the twin could see, all found their marks. Very well, he amended a moment later, of course all of them found their marks. There were many things that could be said about the Wood-elves of Mirkwood, but none had ever suggested that they were anything but excellent archers. Not as good as the Noldor, maybe, but not bad either.

For a moment, Elladan had to fight the very strong urge to take a hold of the silver-haired elf and yank him backwards. Just what was he thinking, exposing himself like this? He was more than half-tempted to actually reach out and do it, but then he decided somewhat wearily that Celylith was an adult and more than capable of making his own decisions, even if they were liable to get him killed. Besides, if he hadn't lost his bow in the initial chaos, he was quite sure that he would be right there as well, standing next to the other elf.

He cursed himself under his breath for allowing that one man to knock his strung bow from his shoulder; that was actually the problem in a fight, that a strung bow was very, very unhandy and unwieldy. There were times in hand-to-hand combat, especially in one as chaotic as this one, when your only chance of survival was to drop your bow and rely on your blades. Elladan hated doing it, hated it with a passion since it both robbed him of a definitive advantage and also put his bow at risk, but he hated dying a good deal more.

Still grumbling and keeping low, he made his way over to the relative safety of the scaffold, hissing at Celylith to stop playing the hero and to get under cover, for Manwë's sake. He was about to turn around to see if the silver-haired elf had heeded his command – he very much doubted it – when Isál's voice reached him, sounding hollow and horrified.

"My lord!"

Elladan didn't even have to ask what had alarmed the captain, and with some weariness he turned back around, ducking just in time to avoid an arrow that just might have taken his eye out. It took him a few seconds to realise what was going on, but when he did he jumped to his feet, all concerns for his safety forgotten.

"Elbereth Gilthoniel."

The whispered words were enough to tear Celylith out of his spell, and he turned around, trying to determine what Elladan had seen and what had distressed him so. When he did, the anger that had taken up permanent residence in the pit of his stomach turned into cold, paralysing fear, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

The archers on the roofs hadn't been aiming at them, or not exclusively so. They had apparently had the orders to eliminate another threat to the humans: The small, defiant group of Elrohir's warriors that had drawn a circle around Legolas' motionless body, defending the fallen prince and themselves with a ferocity that caused most of the men to think twice before attacking them. The part of Celylith that was trained in tactics and warfare even had to approve of their tactic; the warriors were a thorn in the men's flank, a threat _behind _their lines. If they were eliminated, the men could move much more easily, without fear of being attacked from behind, and could actually bring in reinforcements without having to split them up between this group of elves and the ones who were threatening to bring down their outer defences.

The part of him that wasn't trained in such things and was only a horrified friend did not approve but rather began to make quite long, elaborate plans of how he could best kill the person responsible for this.

Celylith could only watch in stunned horror as an arrow hit its mark, burrowing itself in the side of one of the dark-haired Noldor who was standing at the edges of the tightly-drawn circle and spinning him around in the sickening parody of a dance. Another warrior was hit a moment later, he, too, falling to the ground, and the men surrounding the elves surged forward, sensing their chance to eliminate this little nest of resistance once and for all.

A sudden clarity manifested itself in Celylith's mind, as firm and irrefutable as if it had been whispered to him by the Valar themselves: If nothing was done in the next thirty seconds, Elrohir's warriors would be overrun and killed. Legolas would be killed, if he wasn't dead already.

Celylith lifted his gaze and looked at Elladan who looked back at him, the same horrible realisation in his eyes. They didn't even need to say anything to convey their thoughts. Elladan turned to his archers, yelling at them to keep firing and _clear the roofs_, no matter how long it took and what exactly they would have to do.

Then the dark-haired twin whirled around and started running, followed by Isál and those of his men who weren't busy picking off the enemy archers one by one. Celylith dropped his bow without another thought and followed, weaving his way around elven warriors and humans locked in fierce combat.

There was no way he would allow Legolas to die, not like this and certainly not now.

He absolutely refused having to bring his king this kind of news.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
Someone had veiled the sky.

He didn't really know how, why or even when exactly, but he was in far too much pain to actually care. All he knew was that it had become dark and strangely silent, even though sometimes sounds did reach his ears, but sounding strangely muted and as if coming from very far away. In his more lucent moments he wondered about it, but every time he managed to wrap his jumbled thoughts around the subject, another wave of pain would slam into him, rendering him incapable of drawing breath, let alone reasonable thought.

In his very, very lucent moments he knew almost for certain that it was connected to him dying.

The thought had stopped scaring him a long time ago. He was his father's son and had therefore never backed down from a fight – sometimes he thought that he was physically unable to do so – but there was a first time for everything. He had lost this particular fight and he knew it. And besides, there was no shame in surrendering in face of insurmountable odds, even for a son of Thranduil and a prince of Mirkwood.

There was a vague memory of him clinging to consciousness in order to do something, something important like … like making sure someone did something? … but he couldn't remember any details. All he knew was that someone had veiled the sky, and that he was dying.

Right now, it was enough.

He had stopped fighting the inevitable, and by now, after what felt like hours of mind-numbing, all-consuming pain, the dark, silent nothingness of death even began to sound decidedly attractive. The Halls of Mandos simply _had _to be more comfortable and, most importantly, more pain-free than this. Valar, even having to listen to old warriors drone on and on about their past battles and achievements would be better than this!

Well, maybe not if he had to listen to that one warrior, one of his father's captains who had died in a skirmish a few hundred years back. He knew that one should not speak ill of the dead – or the dying like himself, he added with an inward, ghostly chuckle – but that elf had been firmly convinced that he had saved Mirkwood, single-handedly, of course, on at least three or four dozen occasions. No, having to deal with him for an age or two would just be too much to ask.

Legolas was already dreamily planning his speech to Námo in which he would tell the Vala in no uncertain terms that he did not intend to spend even a second in that elf's company and that there was nothing he could do to change his mind. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the thought was morbid at the very least and dangerous at worst, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was dying, in Elbereth's name, so what could possibly make the situation any worse?

If he'd been more aware of his situation and not so busy with the … well, the dying, he might have realised that to ask such a question – whether it was meant rhetorically or not – was nothing but stupidity. After so many months of knowing Aragorn anybody with even a single working brain cell left knew better than to say anything that the Valar might construe as a challenge – they tended to take you seriously and show you that yes, a lot of things could be and/or get worse.

It wasa somewhat annoying fact of life, but one you could learn to live with if you developed an appropriately cynical and paranoid character.

Legolas felt himself drifting, not really knowing from where or whereto. The pain was still there, stabbing through his very being with a steady, numbing intensity that was impossible to ignore or disregard. Sometimes the mist that was surrounding him became thinner and somewhat more translucent, but most of the time it changed back just as quickly, transforming into an impregnable wall that might just as well have been made of solid mithril. At odd intervals, however, some sounds did get through the blanketing nothingness around him, and he found himself hard-pressed to identify them – not that he tried very hard, of course. He was in so much pain and dying, after all, and dying people merited some sort of consideration, and doubly so when they were dying such a painful death.

He dimly wondered if there actually was such a thing as a truly painless death, and came to the conclusion that he seriously doubted it.

He had just reached that particular decision when the sounds suddenly intensified once again, and he sighed inwardly as he waited for them to dim again. It took him some moments to realise that they did in fact not, and even longer to figure out what that actually meant. The pain that was burning in his midsection intensified with every strange, clanking sound that stabbed through his head like a knife, and he fuzzily decided that he had liked the mist and the darkness a lot better than this.

Then the sky was suddenly back, the veil having been lifted from one moment to the next, and Legolas found himself staring up at a cloudy firmament and the few, blinking stars that managed to penetrate the thick grey clouds. Their appearance startled him, badly so – there were no stars in Mandos' Halls, were there? – and Legolas gritted his teeth as the churning, mind-numbing pain in his stomach grew even worse. The sky and the stars were suddenly unimportant, and all that mattered was trying to draw air into his lungs that were almost paralysed by the sheer agony that tinted every breath.

It took him a few heartbeats to actually manage to breathe, but in the end he did so, effectively cleaning some of the mist that had apparently seeped into his brain. He slowly began to take notice of his surroundings, and after an amount of time that would probably have embarrassed an averagely intelligent five-year-old child, he realised that he was lying on his back on something hard and wet, feeling colder than he could remember feeling in all his life. There was something tucked around him, a blanket or a coat maybe, and he was definitely fully clothed – thank Eru for small mercies! – but it didn't seem to help at all. He felt as if he had awoken on the peak of Caradhras in the middle of a blizzard, stark naked.

Through the pain that was throbbing through him with an intensity that was quite incredible he noticed that his hearing was still definitely off – sounds seemed to swim in and out of focus, one moment sounding very, very dim and at the next sounding as if they were coming from no more than a foot or two away. There was a lot of screaming going on, he decided calmly, screaming and cursing in various languages that was so foul that it would have brought a blush to his cheeks if he'd had any blood to spare. But he did not, he knew that; it was all flowing out of him, as steadily and inescapably like sand that was running through an hourglass. Soon his sand would have run out and nothing would remain, he knew that as well, and now that he was no longer caught in the dark weightlessness that had surrounded him for Valar-knew-how-long he felt the stab of pain-fear-panic-defiance-anger he should have felt a long time ago.

It was something he had been missing almost desperately without even noticing it, and suddenly dying didn't sound all that comforting and preferable anymore. On the contrary, it sounded utterly unacceptable, and the relief that came in the wake of that realisation was enough to make him slowly turn his head in order to find out what was going on here. His memory wasn't the best or even reliable at the moment, he was quite aware of that, but the last thing he remembered had been convincing Elrohir's warrior … Ferdhôl? … that there was no reason for all of them to die heroically and that he and his comrades should leave him behind when they tried to escape. That was the problem with the Noldor, actually; they were too blinded by their own noble (or, in his opinion, only overly dramatic) ancestors and their equally noble deeds, and were far too ready and willing to lay down their lives for a noble cause.

There was a time and place for that, of course, but one could overdo everything.

Feeling strangely heartened by that thought, Legolas turned his head fully and concentrated on the flowing shapes that surrounded him, frowning in confusion when he succeeded. He did remember Ferdhôl and the others glaring at the humans in a way that had been quite murderous, but he did _not _remember a battle going on. He wasn't entirely sure about it since he could hardly concentrate enough to actually make out separate figures, but it very much looked as if the human guards and the rest of the soldiers of this town were involved in a full-blown battle with more elves than he could remember having been present. A lot more.

Legolas watched the events with a curiously detached interest, a feeling that was probably aided by the fact that he was just too cold, too tired and in too much pain to truly concentrate. All he could do was lie on his back, feel the cold, wet ground beneath him and something solid at his back he suspected was a wall and observe the battle. It was far too fast for him to follow or understand, but a part of him that wasn't yet completely numbed by the cold and the pain told him quite soothingly that things were going quite well. Elrohir's warriors stood around him in a tight circle, their backs to him, and any human who tried to break through their lines was quickly shown that there were better things he could be doing with his time. Elrohir himself was not present, at least he didn't think so, something that was a bad thing, he knew that much. He didn't really know why, but a gnawing worry that almost rivalled the pain in his midsection took up residence in his heart and refused to go away with a persistency that was quite impressive.

It was right, too, something he found out soon enough. It wasn't about Lord Elrond's son – _this time_, a small, almost malevolent voice inside his head noted – that much became obvious quite quickly, but he needed several moments to actually comprehend what was going on. One of the elves to his left, a dark-haired warrior who was slightly smaller than the rest of his companions and who had defended himself without any kind of problem until now, suddenly stumbled back several feet. He turned around his own axis, looking as if something big, malicious and invisible had taken a hold of him and moved him around, and finally fell to the ground. The somewhat crudely forged blade – clearly of human make – that he had been holding fell from white, limp fingers to join its owner on the ground, making no sound as it impacted with the damp earth and skittered over the ground until it came to a halt no more than ten inches from Legolas' left side. The elven prince stared at it as if he'd never before seen a sword of any kind, which even might have been true. He wasn't very sure about a lot of things at the moment, after all.

Even while Legolas was still trying to decide what was happening – try as he might, he could not think of anything that would explain these extraordinary happenings – another warrior fell, something long, slim and slightly shivering sticking out of his chest. Blood was slowly flowing from the injury, but it was only a little and soon stopped, staining the dark shaft of wood an even darker colour. It took the elven prince several long moments to identify said object as an arrow, and even longer to actually figure out where it had come from and what it meant.

The final conclusion he reached was anything but favourable, and the sudden adrenaline that accompanied it was enough to give him enough strength to concentrate on what was going on. He didn't know where all the elves had come from or even who they were – even though he could fathom a rather hazy guess – but that didn't really matter. His senses had not abandoned him completely yet, and he had still a firm enough grasp on the situation to see that the battle lines had solidified some distance away from their position. Elrohir's warriors had no cover and nowhere to hide from the barrage of arrows that was beginning to rain down on them, and the others wouldn't able to come to their aid soon enough if…

Legolas' thought trailed off into nothing when another elf went down with a cry of pain, bringing the number of uninjured warriors down to two, Ferdhôl and another elf whose name he did not know. Even the most naïve and inexperienced recruit would have been able to see that that would not be enough to stop the humans that were pressing in on them – Valar, even a hobbit child would have seen it. The two did their best, that much was clear, and they even managed to push back the soldiers for a moment or two, but Legolas had seen enough lost battles to know that it would only be a matter of time. They were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred and generally out of options.

A moment later, the other elf fell before the onslaught – Legolas was fervently hoping that he was only unconscious and not dead – and Ferdhôl stood alone. It was a testimony to his training that there was no sign of fear or dread on his pale face, and only a slight twist of his mouth betrayed how desperate he really was. The men were closing in on him now, their swords drawn and ready, cutting off any way of escape that might have remained open to him.

Just whom was he trying to fool, the lieutenant asked himself a second later, almost openly amused even in the face of the death that was staring back at him from a dozen faces. He would never have left Prince Legolas behind alone and undefended, not like this. He would have done as he'd promised the wood-elf earlier and would have left him behind – however regretfully – if he'd thought that there was a chance to save his men, but now…

Now his men were dead or incapacitated, and he would rather thrust his sword into his own chest before he'd abandon his young lord's friend like this. There was a dark chapter in his people's history – one of too many – when his ancestors had abandoned their own during the Flight from Valinor, and he, like so many others, had sworn to himself that he would never let it happen again. The Noldor did not abandon their allies and would do so never again, and if that meant that he would sit in Mandos' Halls with his men tonight, so be it.

There were fates far worse than that, after all.

One of the men, an officer by the looks of it, stepped forward, apparently sufficiently emboldened by the presence of his men at his back. Ferdhôl was very sure that he had seen him before, and needed only half a second to remember where: Two steps behind Gasur, following the captain like a shadow. He even looked somewhat like a shadow, with his light blond hair and pale face, and Ferdhôl would hardly have been surprised if he'd floated instead of walked.

The fight – if you wanted to call it that – was over quickly. Ferdhôl was exhausted, anxiety having settled over him and seeped into his bones. Still, the human lieutenant was no match for him, or rather would have been no match for him even if one of his hands had been tied behind his back, which was why the man's soldiers decided to interfere. The numbers were simply overwhelmingly against the dark-haired elf, and in the end he didn't stand a chance. Robbed of any and all space to manoeuvre and effectively trapped, it surprised no one (not even Ferdhôl himself) when the blond lieutenant managed to find a hole in his defences – no wonder with almost a dozen humans surrounding him on all sides.

Something surprisingly solid sliced into his chest, sharp metal cutting through flesh and finally coming to a stop when it cut into the solid hardness of a rib. It took a second for the pain to register in his mind, but finally it did, washing over his entire being like a tidal wave he couldn't have stopped even if he'd been able to concentrate. Legolas could only watch while Gasur's lieutenant pulled his blade out with a malicious, sadistic smile that looked very much like one Acalith's captain would have worn.

Ferdhôl collapsed, still conscious but entirely too weak and too paralysed by pain and shock to resist any further. The blond lieutenant's men hung back slightly, allowing their officer to take care of this himself, and … Fosul, was that his name, Legolas wondered detachedly … stepped closer to the wounded elf who was lying on the ground, his hands clamped over the large, gaping wound in his side. It was clear that he was already more than half on his way into unconsciousness, something that, under any other circumstances, would have been a blessing.

Now, however, it just meant that Ferdhôl would die all the easier, with no strength and no defiance left in his exhausted body. Legolas realised with sudden, startling certainty that Elrohir's lieutenant would die in the next ten seconds if nothing was done, that he would die because he and his men had refused to abandon him, and, without even thinking about it, did something that would have caused any heroic, noble, overly dramatic Noldo of old to pale in envy. Fingolfin himself would have been impressed, if not downright jealous.

Feeling with numb, uncooperative fingers for the smaller warrior's sword that had skittered over to him earlier, Legolas pushed his equally numb, uncooperative body up, managing to get onto his knees. Agony so fierce and blinding that it did take his breath away shot through the wound in his stomach, and if his hand hadn't closed around the sword's hilt in this very moment, enabling him to keep himself upright with the blade's help, he would have fallen backwards immediately. He tried to breathe deeply in order to get it under control as he'd been taught when he had been younger, but that logically didn't work too well when you were in too much pain to even draw breath.

In the end, pure adrenaline enabled him to stay upright, and anger and urgency gave him enough strength to push himself to his feet. There was only so much a body could handle, however, especially a body that was so battered and on the verge of failing completely. Only a supreme amount of willpower allowed him to actually stay on his feet and fight his body's immediate and probably rather intelligent urge to simply collapse on the spot.

The blond lieutenant was far too busy looking maliciously at Ferdhôl and, in a strange and somewhat rather deranged looking way, raising his sword slowly and dramatically to impress upon the wounded elf the fact that he was going to kill him, and therefore never even noticed that Legolas had struggled to his feet. The elven prince couldn't really fault him for that; he supposed that he looked dreadful and that not even an exceptionally positive person would have expected him to go anywhere.

He tried to take a stealthy step forward, but any minute movement was enough to bring forth new, breathtaking stabs of agony, and he felt how not-so-small rivulets of blood began to saturate the hastily applied bandage Elrohir had wrapped around his middle. Before he could stop himself, a soft, agonised moan of pain escaped his lips even though he was pressing them together so tightly that he could barely breathe through the pain that clouded his brain. Fosul stopped in mid-motion and whirled around, fixing pale, almost colourless eyes on the swaying, blood-covered elven prince.

Ah well, Legolas tried to console himself while he tried to fight back the weakness, nausea and the apparently uncontrollable tremors that shook his body. There were about ten men standing behind the human lieutenant; there would have been absolutely no way he would have been able to surprise Gasur's crony.

Said crony looked him over with that same cold look he had used to assess his condition when he had been chained to a wall in the cellars, and Legolas felt how fear joined the anger and urgency that were keeping him upright. He was not afraid of this man, he tried to tell himself angrily, by the Valar, but he was _not_! It was an echo of the fear he felt of Acalith's mad-eyed captain, a fear of what the man could and would do to him and his friends should he ever get his hands on them again, and no matter how much he tried to push it away, it would not be suppressed.

"So," the human said matter-of-factly, turning his attention from Ferdhôl to Legolas so smoothly and quickly that it almost made Legolas' already aching head spin. "The little elf has awoken. And here I thought you to be dead, or to be well on your way, at least."

Legolas resisted the urge to shake his head to clear his jumbled thoughts, deeply suspicious that it might seize the opportunity to fall off and roll away, and sent a quick prayer to Ilúvatar that he wouldn't sound like he felt. If he did, he seriously doubted that he would get any further than to monosyllabic sounds.

"The 'little elf' isn't chained to a wall this time," he announced, trying to cover up the fact that he was about thirty or maybe thirty-five seconds from passing out and, probably, dying. He was quite good at that; he was his father's son, after all, and had always been able to hide almost anything behind an arrogant façade. "Why don't you come over here and see for yourself just how awake I am?"

Fosul arched an eyebrow, and Legolas realised that his covering-up had probably not been all that successful.  
"I think I'll just wait here and watch you fall over again, elf," the man announced, looking unbearably smug. "Why bother?"

Legolas desperately tried to think of something intelligent and scathing to say, but soon realised that his brains must have seized his moment of distraction and must have sneaked out of his skull via his ears. He couldn't think of anything at all that would keep the lieutenant busy – and that was all he wanted to do, stall him. He was not so blinded as to actually think that he might be able to _fight _Gasur's lieutenant, no matter how dearly he'd have liked to. All he wanted was keep him occupied long enough so that the other elves could get here. It wouldn't matter for him, he was sure about that, but it would matter for Ferdhôl and his men.

"And here I thought that you weren't a coward like Gasur," he finally said, throwing subtlety and wittiness out of the window and going for directness. "Whatever could have possessed me to think that?"

Staying upright was getting harder and harder, and the pain in his stomach became increasingly more paralysing, but all that soon became unimportant when the lieutenant's face began to take on the colour of sun-ripened, dark grapes. For someone as naturally pale as Fosul it was a disconcerting sight indeed, and Legolas stared at him with wide, pain-brightened eyes, completely missing the commotion that had broken out behind Gasur's lieutenant's back. A group of elves had pushed their way up to the spot right behind Fosul and were right now throwing themselves against the men's lines with a ferocity and wild anger that was very impressive and more than just a bit scary.

Fosul, however, noticed as little of it as Legolas. The elven prince had never really seen the man as brave or even memorable – he had mostly been the person who had followed Gasur around, had handed him the torture implements he wanted and had cheerfully hit chained prisoners when he was ordered – but it seemed that his courage was directly proportional to the amount of men he knew to be at his back. He stared at the swaying elven prince with narrowed eyes, not even realising that a part of his men turned around to join the men behind him and help them strengthen the lines that were crumbling even faster now.

"You are dead, you know that, don't you, elf?" the man asked coldly, eyeing the fair-haired being with disdain. "The captain should have finished you and that ranger whelp off when he had the chance, so he should have."

To his surprise, the elf smiled at that. The smile looked more like a pained grimace that distorted the pale, blood-smeared features of the elf, and not for the first time the man asked himself wherefrom the blond being got the strength to keep upright and stay more or less lucid. A man would already have been dead with a wound like this, or at the very least have been well on his way and delirious. 

"Aye," he agreed softly, a word that was almost drowned out by the sound of the battle. "So he should have. It would appear that that is a mistake that is about to break his back." He glanced around himself meaningfully. "And not only his."

Legolas looked at the man steadily, detachedly noticing that his strength would give out in twenty seconds. Another tremble ran through his body, reigniting the fiery pain in his middle and causing cold sweat to break out on his forehead, and Legolas calmly amended the figure downwards, closer to fifteen seconds.

"And I am not the only one who is dead, Fosul. One of the many, many differences between you and me is that I do not deny it." He looked at the man once again, cold contempt in his too bright eyes. "I am not surprised, however. It is a coward's reaction, after all."

That finally did it. Legolas was almost relieved when the blond lieutenant turned yet another deeper shade of purple and stepped forward, making his way around the bodies of the fallen warriors in order to reach the elven prince. The man kicked the limp, motionless hand of one of the elves out of the way when he stepped over him – that of the slightly smaller warrior whose sword Legolas held in his trembling hands right now – and the wood-elf felt how his anger went up another notch, which was probably a good thing. Even adrenaline and sheer bloody-mindedness and unwillingness to give up could only get you so far, and Legolas knew that as soon as his body truly realised what he was putting it through he would collapse where he stood – or rather swayed.

To Legolas it seemed that a lot more people than just Fosul were moving suddenly in the background, even people who looked suspiciously like elves that should even be here in the first place, but he ignored all that and used what little strength he still possessed to fight off the lieutenant's attack. Within two seconds he realised that he had in fact no strength left, none at all. The first few blows he escaped by sheer good luck, and if Fosul hadn't been such a bad swordsman, not even that would have saved him. Legolas simply didn't possess the strength to block the strokes the man was aiming at him or even stumble to the side to avoid them, and when, about ten seconds after Fosul had started moving, a fist came apparently out of nowhere, connected with his ribs and sent him to the ground, it came as no surprise to him.

The pain that washed over him half a second later did surprise him, however, for he had thought himself to be too far gone to be able to feel that kind of agony. Breathing became impossible and unimportant, and the only thing that prevented him from falling into the beckoning unconsciousness that offered relief and silence was the fact that he still _was _the Prince of Mirkwood, no matter what. He would die with his eyes open and his head held high, and not whimpering on the ground like a helpless child.

Pain-clouded silver-blue eyes opened again, and Gasur's lieutenant watched with malicious amusement how the blond elf tried to push himself up once more, his snow-white face set in a grimace of fury, pain and determination. A new kick to the already blood-soaked bandage around his middle convinced him otherwise, and the elf fell back with a small cry of agony, the pale face turning even whiter.

Fosul kicked the elf's weapon out of the way and stepped closer until the blade of his own sword was hovering over the fair-haired being's fallen form. He slowly lowered the tip until it rested against the base of the elf's throat that was moving up and down rapidly as the elf vainly tried to draw enough air into his lungs.

"This will please the captain, I think," he remarked thoughtfully, pressing down his sword a little and watching how the long cut on the elf's throat reopened and started to bleed again. "Oh yes, this will please him very much indeed."

"And I," a calm voice announced, sounding far too cold and unemotional to be either, "would be very pleased if you would step away from my friend." There was a short, even colder and more threatening pause. "Then again, I think I would be even more pleased if you wouldn't and would give me an excuse to run you through."

Fosul whirled around, the tip of his blade moving over the blond elf's throat and leaving yet another red line in its wake. In front of him, no more than seven or eight feet away, stood a motionless elf who was watching him out of dark-blue eyes that were so cold and angry that he would almost have taken a step backwards. The bodies of the three men that had stayed with him and hadn't left to strengthen their comrades' line were lying behind him, even more motionless, and the human lieutenant didn't even have to look at them more closely to know that they were dead. It seemed that he was the only elf that had managed to break through; there were more pressing against the men's lines, but they hadn't got through just yet.

The elf's eyes were following his every movement, and if the emotions in the midnight-blue depths hadn't been enough, his face would have been dark enough to send a cold shiver of fear down Fosul's back. A part of the elf's long, silver hair was stuck to one of his cheeks by drying blood, and his features were so still that they might have been carved out of white marble.

This one, Gasur's lieutenant realised, would be no weakened, easy victim who was in too much pain to fight back.

"And what do _you _want?" he asked, trying to hide his growing fear and inexplicable panic.

Celylith smiled at that, a smile that looked more than a little bit like the grimace of a predator that was preparing to jump at you and try to tear out your throat.  
"Justice. Revenge. Call it what you want." The smile faded as his eyes came to rest on the far too still figure of his prince. "And, more than anything else, blood. _Your _blood, _adan_."

"Revenge?" Fosul repeated spitefully, kicking Legolas nonchalantly in the ribs and eliciting another moan of pain from the half-conscious elf and a deathly glare from his friend. "For him? You're a bit late, elf. He's already dead as it is."

"Maybe," the silver-haired elf nodded. "But then again, so are you."

There was no more warning before the silver-haired elf lunged at him, the deceiving stillness suddenly transforming itself into violent action. The sword that had been dangling from his hand was suddenly raised high and brought down in a wicked swing that would almost have taken Fosul's head off, and all the man could do was jump back and try to avoid the elf as best as he could. Before he could even gather his wits, the elf had compensated for his movements and was pressing in on him, his sword moving seemingly faster than the human eye could follow.

A sharp pain stabbed through his forearm as the elf's blade cut into him, and Fosul amended his statement. The sword _was _moving than the human eye could follow. Any and all thoughts of that kind were quickly driven out of his head when the silver-haired elf began to move again, the blade slipping through the man's defences again and again. Fosul tried to draw back, to put some more space between himself and the elf, but no matter what he did, no matter what kind of manoeuvre he came up with, the silver-haired being was already there, blocking his every attack. It took him almost a whole minute to understand what was going on here: The elf was playing with him. He could have killed him already if his mind had been set on it. Fosul gritted his teeth and threw himself to the side, trying to avoid the elf's blade again. He would not just stand here and allow himself to be killed!

Legolas was watching the fight out of wide, glazed eyes, barely knowing what was going on. Even though he was reasonably sure that his eyes were, indeed, open, he couldn't see much more than blurry, dark shapes. Any and all strength he'd had left was seeping out of him with the blood that was once again flowing from his wound at an alarming rate, and no amount of anger or adrenaline or fear would change anything now. There was no way he would be getting up again, neither in order to save anybody else nor in order to save himself. He would, he decided dreamily, most likely never get up again.

The elven prince narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out whom Fosul was fighting or who of the two shapes was in fact the human lieutenant, but his eyes stubbornly refused to co-operate. It didn't surprise him overly much – they were his eyes, after all – but it was definitely annoying. In the end, however, the two quickly moving forms coalesced into two more or less solid shapes, a feat for which he was embarrassingly enough not responsible at all. He very much doubted that he would be able to lift his head right now.

Legolas squinted and tried to get the two combatants into focus, noticing to his great surprise that the pain in his abdomen was slowly fading. His weakness and the cold that was seeping into his very being were not diminishing, however, and some small part of him was screaming and rallying against that. The bigger part of him, however, did not care overly much. The wary acceptance from before was back, even stronger this time. He had tried, the Valar knew that he had, and he had nothing more to give.

The person who had prevented Fosul from cutting his throat – or at least he suspected that someone must have, since he couldn't remember much of that moment except white-hot agony and a towering darkness that had been pressing in on him – was turning right now, swiftly moving his sword from one hand to the other and thrusting his now freed shoulder into the man's side. Fosul stumbled back, badly unbalanced, and only a wild swing of his sword saved him from a messy and immediate death.

Somehow, the lieutenant managed to regain his equilibrium to commence the fight, but while Legolas' ability to focus on anything that was further away than an inch or two might have diminished, he still could see when someone was losing a fight. The elf Fosul was fighting was winning – and without any serious problem at that – and the man knew that, too, at least judging by his quick, increasingly panicked movements. Then, with sudden, rather stunning clarity Legolas could see how the man's hand travelled down his left leg, finally closing around something small and round.

Legolas didn't know who the elf was, but he was reasonably sure that he owed him his life – for what it was worth right now, granted. The other elf wouldn't be able to see what Fosul was doing, not in the position the two of them were in, so he should warn him, shouldn't he? But what sounded like a good idea in general was not that easy in reality. His body had already shut down all systems and functions it deemed unnecessary for survival, and talking (let alone shouting) apparently fell right into that category.

Knowing that he had no time at all to spare, Legolas gathered all his remaining strength and felt around with his right hand, not even knowing what he was looking for. After a second or two his weak, uncooperative fingers closed around something, and, not at all caring what it was, Legolas threw the object into the direction of the two fighters with all his strength. The human dagger that had fallen from one of the elven warriors' hands earlier sailed through the air, describing a rather neat little arc, and hit the man's knee with its flat side. It didn't do any damage at all, but it was enough to break Fosul's concentration and make him jerk slightly, the movement causing the previously hidden dagger glint slightly in the sparse light.

The elf growled something low in his throat that Legolas couldn't understand and ensured with a quick movement of his sword that the man's dagger went flying, landing somewhere to the right of them with a soft, clanking noise. Fosul dived to the side of avoid the next attack, and before he turned hastily back around to parry the next stab that was aimed at his heart, he gave Legolas a look so cold and full of hate that it would probably have affected him in some sort if he hadn't been so far gone already. Things being as they were, however, Legolas merely stared at the man's furious face, noticing that his figure was beginning to lose integrity once more and that he was beginning to blur around the edges.

Fosul suddenly felt the very burning, very urgent wish to kill the fair-haired elf, finally understanding what Captain Gasur had always spoken about: This one was incredibly annoying, and just when you thought that he was beaten, he found a way to do something else that foiled your plans. If it hadn't been for him, he would already have disposed of this troublesome, silver-haired creature and would be well on his way to safety!

Said troublesome creature seemed to be disinclined to play any longer, however; the man's almost successful treacherous attack and his friend's sudden stillness were enough to convince him otherwise. Blow upon blow rained down on Gasur's lieutenant, making it almost impossible for him to block all of them. Yet another one hit the man, this time delivered by the elf's fist, and he stumbled backwards, slamming into the wall of the building behind him. Before Fosul could even blink, still stunned by the shock of the impact, the elf had moved in front of him, but he was doing nothing more than stare at him out of angry, cold blue eyes. That was definitely strange, and so Fosul tried to think of a reason why the elf would do that, fighting against the confusion that was beginning to grow inside of him.

The man looked around him, sagging against the stone wall at his back, and finally looked down his own body, his eyes widening in astonishment at what he found there. A sword – the elf's sword, his failing brain informed him – was sticking out of his chest, a sight that Fosul found most peculiar. There was a strange, flowing sensation inside of him that he couldn't really place, and the blond man tried to decide what it could be. A moment later, however, thinking became far too difficult and problematic to be worth it. A darkness he was at a loss to explain – shouldn't it be getting lighter instead of darker at this time of night? – began to close in on him, and when his body touched the ground, slowly having slid down the wall, Gasur's lieutenant was already dead.

Celylith kept staring at the dead man at his feet, his eyes dark and his chest heaving with anger and the exertion of the fight. Removing his sword from the man's chest, he did not even bother to try and find anything resembling regret in his heart – he knew that it wouldn't be there. This man had been leading these soldiers, he had personally seen how he had almost cut Legolas' throat, and that was all the reason he could possibly need to kill him without regret or doubt or remorse. No one hurt his prince and got away with it, no one, and if he had anything to say about it, no one ever would.

He hadn't even completed the thought when the whole gravity of the situation came crashing down on him, and for a moment he remained where he was, rooted to the spot by fear and panic and dread while his eyes sought out the motionless, blood-stained figure of his best friend. Then, however, time sped up again as reality reasserted itself, and with a curse that was almost inaudible for having been muttered through gritted teeth Celylith thrust his bloody sword into its sheath and rushed over to Legolas' side, falling to his knees next to him.

The first thing he noticed was that Legolas' eyes were open, looking dark and glazed and so full of pain that Celylith immediately felt sick. The other elf didn't seem to see him, though, and was simply staring straight ahead, giving the silver-haired elf no attention at all. The second thing he noticed was almost enough to send him into a state of mindless panic and reduce him to nothing more than a quivering heap on the ground. The wound he hadn't been able to see clearly before now, the wound he'd known had to be bad to incapacitate his prince like this, was on full display, the blood-soaked bandages that were wound around Legolas' middle contrasting sharply against his once white shirt and pale skin.

Celylith was the son of a master healer and a warrior and had therefore seen a lot of gruesome wounds from a very early age, but nothing in the world could have prepared him for the sight of this kind of wound, not when it was Legolas who was suffering from it. He had been in so many battles and skirmishes that he had thought he would be prepared for anything and that nothing could shock him anymore, but this did. The bloody hole in his friend's body shocked him more than he had ever thought possible, and the memory of the way his mother's lips had always thinned in fear and dread when a warrior with such a wound had been brought to her was enough to cause his hands to start shaking.

Legolas' face was deathly still and very, very white, as white and cold as his hand was when he grasped one of them, unconsciously trying to let his friend know that he was no longer alone. Reacting completely automatically, Celylith shrugged out of his cloak, folded it up and pressed it over the wound, applying as much pressure as he dared. The blood – Valar, there was so much blood! – still kept on flowing, welling up even despite his best efforts, but the thing that scared him most was that Legolas didn't even react to something that should have had him screaming in agony.

Celylith felt how his own hands grew cold and how dread formed a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't felt this afraid and close to panic since he had found his sister's fiancé under that broad tree, dying from the wound an orc scimitar had struck.

"Legolas?" he whispered, finding that his voice wouldn't co-operate and resolutely refusing to think about Amaran's death any further, or anything else it had entailed. "Manwë Súlimo above, just what were you two doing?" He shot the dead man and the blood that was pooling underneath him a quick look. "A competition to see who could bleed the most?"

Legolas' eyes slowly focussed on his face, even though no one could have said that he looked as if he recognised him.  
"W-Who…?"

Celylith closed his eyes for a second, unwilling to let his prince see the pain and fear in his eyes. He would probably not have noticed it if he'd written the words on a sign and hung it around his neck, though, something that only intensified the panic that was beginning to push any and all calm and composure to the side.

"It is me, _mellon nín_," he told the fair-haired elf, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "Me, Celylith. I am sorry it took me so long to get here. I was as quick as I could."

Legolas convulsed slightly when he increased the pressure, getting desperate now. He had to stop the bleeding, right now, or he would be talking to a corpse in less than a minute. Celylith threw a desperate, frantic look over his shoulder, his eyes searching for Elladan or, better yet, Lord Elrond. Legolas needed a healer – a real healer, not someone like him who had only been half-trained by his long-departed mother – and he needed him now. The elf lord, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Elladan and his warriors were still occupied with the late lieutenant's men. It did not surprise him; it had been nothing but sheer, dumb luck that he had managed to break through.

"Celylith?" Legolas whispered, confusion evident in his voice. "What … how…?"

"Shh," the silver-haired elf shook his head, turning back to his friend. "Don't worry about that now, Legolas. Don't worry about anything. Just stay awake, do you hear me? Everything will be all right, as long as you stay awake!"

The elven prince's brow furrowed at that, as if he'd only half understood what his friend was talking about. Considering that he was only a few moments away from losing consciousness, it would have been a miracle indeed if he had.  
"Com-competition?"

It took Celylith a moment or two to understand what the other elf was referring to, but then he did and promptly smiled, doing his best to look calm.

"You won it, _mellon nín_, not a doubt about that," he told him, still pressing both of his hands against the slightly older elf's abdomen. They were covered in blood – Legolas' blood, he realised with a shudder – up to the wrists, and he didn't dare lessen the pressure to see if the blood flow was decreasing. "You never could lose at anything."

"Not … true."

"Come now, my prince," Celylith retorted, smiling shakily at his best friend. There was a tired, weary look in Legolas' eyes that he didn't like at all. "It is true, and, right now, I couldn't care less. What did I tell you about getting yourself into trouble when I wasn't around to look after you?"

Legolas felt strangely removed from this very strange conversation, as if he was floating somewhere next to his body and only listening to someone else's words. It wasn't that Celylith's words weren't making any sense – they were for once – but somehow he had a hard time figuring out why they should matter to him in any way.  
"I'm … sorry…"

"No!" Celylith exclaimed forcefully, shaking his head. "No, Legolas! There is nothing to feel sorry for, nothing at all. Do not say such things!"

"But I have to," Legolas protested, finding that his voice sounded stronger all of the sudden. The small part of him noticed it as well and promptly stopped its own protests, sensing defeat and the end drawing near. For some reason, that failed to alarm him at all. "If I … don't say it now, then … when … will I?"

"Don't," Celylith shook his head again, his voice barely more than a broken whisper. "Don't, Legolas." He turned half around, his blood-stained hands still pressed firmly onto the wound. His midnight-blue eyes that were almost black with fear and worry and real panic looked for Elladan's tall, dark-haired figure, fastening on the twin with the intensity of a drowning man who had spied a piece of wood. "Elladan!"

He didn't say more; there _was _nothing to say, nothing he could have put into words. The twin's head jerked up, momentarily distracted, and for a moment their eyes met over the chaos of the battle. Celylith knew that the other elf could see everything in his eyes, all his fear and panic, but he couldn't have looked away even if his life had depended on it. A moment later, the connexion was broken, and Elladan turned back to his battle, shouting orders at his warriors with renewed urgency. The lines of the men couldn't resist this kind of attack any longer and began to crumble, but Celylith had already turned away and was hardly interested in it anyway.

"You … were always a good friend, Celylith," Legolas went on, seemingly not having heard his friend's earlier protests. "The best anybody could have wished for. The … the best I could have wished for. Thank you."

"Stop that," the silver-haired elf bit out roughly. "Stop talking like that, Legolas. I will not listen."

"Course … you will," the prince smiled weakly. "You always have, just like … like Aragorn." A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he stared at the blurry face above him, sudden fear in his eyes. "Aragorn … he is still in Aberon!"

"Yes, my friend, we know," Celylith tried to soothe him. "We know what is going on."

Legolas knew that that wasn't true, that Celylith didn't know what Acalith was planning, that he _couldn't _know, but he didn't have enough strength left to protest. He hardly knew what Acalith had told them earlier, and he was reasonably sure that it wouldn't make any more sense if he tried to say it out loud.

"You will … take care of him for … for me?" was all he asked in the end.

"Of course, _mellon nín_," Celylith nodded, giving up on trying and holding back his tears; Legolas wouldn't see them anyway. He couldn't have stopped them either; his best friend, his prince whom he had sworn to protect with his life, was slipping away in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do, nothing at all. "You know that I will. And now stop talking like that!" He turned back again, tear-blinded eyes unable to see more than blurry shapes. "Elladan!" he called again, panic tingeing his voice.

"Nothing … nothing more to say," Legolas retorted with something that might have been a shrug if he hadn't been lying down and had been in better shape, in a different world. "Tell my father that … that I am so sorry, for so many things. And that I love him."

The dread that had been forming a lump in the pit of Celylith's stomach increased in size until it was almost choking him, and his hands started to shake. He was not hearing this, he told himself firmly. None of this was real, it could not be real.

"I will not," he told his blond friend decisively, firmly keeping the tremor of fear and panic out of his voice. "Do you hear me, Legolas? I will not tell the king; you will have to do that yourself. Don't you _dare _die on me now! How long have we been friends, you and I? Where you go, I go; it has always been like that and always will be so. I will not let you go without a fight, just like that."

Legolas smiled at him, a gentle smile that scared him more than anything else he had seen tonight.  
"You … might have no choice … in that … matter…"

It took Celylith several moments to understand what the other was saying, and only when Legolas' eyes were slowly closing did the full realisation hit him, leaving him with a feeling as if a cave troll had just hit him between the eyes with a hammer.  
"No! Legolas, no! Listen to my voice; stay awake!"

That was a command Legolas couldn't have heeded even if he had wanted to. The beckoning darkness was just too enticing, promising peace and painlessness, and besides, there was only so much a body could take, elven or not. The world grew dimmer and dimmer until even the feeling of Celylith's hands that were holding him faded. When the darkness washed over him and swallowed him whole, he stopped fighting, knowing that, no matter what happened, he would be in good hands.

Celylith saw his friend's body relax and his head fall to the side, and panic so bright that it physically hurt him stabbed through his very core. He kept calling to the other elf, begging him to listen to him and open his eyes, but he knew deep in his heart that Legolas was far beyond hearing him. There was something going on behind them, at least judging by the noise of the battle that suddenly spiked, but he couldn't have cared less.

He didn't know how long he was kneeling there, his hands pressed against the gaping wound in his friend's stomach. It could have been anything between a few seconds and a few years, and when a hand touched him on the shoulder, grasping his trembling form tightly, he literally jumped. A voice was talking to him, sounding torn between urgency and worry, but try as he might, he couldn't understand what it was saying. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except keeping up the pressure against his best friend's middle.

Another set of hands grasped him suddenly, all but hauling him to his feet, and for a second, Celylith struggled, trying to escape their grasp. He couldn't leave Legolas, not like this! The wound would start bleeding again, and then…

"We have him, Celylith," the voice told him in what was probably meant to be a comforting way. "Let go of him. Let me have a look." The speaker paused for a second, apparently giving him a chance to react, and when he didn't, he added, "Isál, get him out of the way."

The hands tightened on his upper arms, dragging him away, and Celylith blinked and suddenly once again became aware of what was going on. There were elven warriors all around them, moving past them in a constant stream. Some of them stayed behind and establed a loose circle around them, but most of them kept moving, following the men who had finally abandoned their post and were retreating in a not very orderly manner.

Elladan had taken over the spot the silver-haired elf had occupied moments ago and was checking his friend's wound, his grey eyes dark and serious. He quickly peeled back the bandage Elrohir had applied earlier, gave the wound a single glance and rapidly covered it again, his lips thinning into a single thin line of displeasure and worry.

The twin looked up, his eyes wandering over Celylith's figure and the shell-shocked look on his face. Isál was standing behind him, his hands on the wood-elf's arms, forcefully keeping him from rushing back to his prince's side. He looked at the brown-haired captain, realising that Celylith probably hardly realised that any of them were here.   
"Keep him out of the way, please," he told Isál. "Knock him out if you have to."

Isál nodded solemnly, but Elladan hardly noticed it, his eyes sweeping over the elven bodies that were surrounding them. A terrible guilt was threatening to choke him; he had seen them fall one by one, Ferdhôl and the others, and there had been nothing he had been able to do to help them. His men had – obviously – cleared the roofs, but it had been too late. Elrohir's little troop had suffered horribly because of their tardiness.

Lifting his gaze, he let his eyes wander over the elves that surrounded him, finally fixing on a familiar face. "Thalar!" he called, addressing Elvynd's surviving commander who had, of course, accompanied them. "Find my father; be as fast as you can. Send any other healer you should encounter here. Quickly!"

The elf inclined his head and turned, already nodding at several of his men to come with him. Elladan hardly noticed it, all his attention fixed on Legolas. His friend looked terrible, so pale that he might have been mistaken for a wraith, and his eyes were closed. More frightening even than that was the amount of blood he could see that was staining the prince's clothes and the hastily applied bandage. There were limits to everything, and not even an elf could afford to lose that much blood without getting some serious problems.

He took one of his unconscious friend's hands in his, his other hand still pressing firmly against his abdomen in order to keep the blood loss under control. Reaching deep into himself, he tried to tap into what little healing power he had inherited from his father; he knew that it wouldn't be enough to save Legolas, let alone heal him, but it might be just enough to keep him from slipping further away until his father could reach them. He only wished Elrohir was here; his twin was far more adept at these things than he was!

Next to him, Celylith was watching the scene with wide, dark-blue eyes, having stopped fighting against Isál restraining hands. They were the only thing that kept him upright, now that reality had fully set in and he understood what was going on.

The shaking that had started a while ago intensified once again, and while Elladan started working on the fair-haired elf, frantically trying to stem the blood flow, Celylith closed his eyes and started to pray to any Vala that might be listening.  
**  
****  
****  
**

Glorfindel had, over the last ten or fifteen minutes, lost the rest of his men, and he didn't even know how or where. Under normal circumstances, it would probably have alarmed him, at least to a certain degree, but right now he hardly even noticed.

There were quite a few things he wasn't noticing, among them the fact that there were panicking humans all around him. Most of them were servants of some sort, at least judging by their clothing, but there were some guards, too, who conveniently seemed to have forgotten about their oath to protect their town and were fleeing like everybody else.

Glorfindel couldn't even blame them. He had always been opposed to waste of any kind, and to die in a fight like this was just that: A waste of lives and resources. The humans couldn't win, not in a thousand years and especially not when their warriors were in this kind of mood, and he couldn't blame them for wanting to escape from a battle in which they would die, for someone and something they probably did not believe in and for which held little love.

Most of them didn't even seem to notice him. The corridors through which he was walking were dark, most of them not even having a single candle or torch to illuminate them. Most of them had probably been dark to begin with, but the few lamps and torches that had been there had disappeared in the chaos. Considering the humans' inferior eyesight and the fact that most of them were only interested in getting out of Acalith's mansion and not in giving their surroundings any more attention than absolutely necessary, most of the fleeing people didn't even spare him an extra look, and those who did only avoided his gaze and quickened their pace. They didn't bother him and he didn't bother them – it was an arrangement that worked for both sides.

Only half an hour ago, Glorfindel would hardly have been satisfied with said arrangement. While he had never wanted or had even thought about killing members of the serving staff, he had been more than willing to kill any and all soldiers and guards he could get his hands on. He was an objective enough elf to admit that anger and fear made him somewhat indiscriminating, and he had not been in the mood to consider carefully which man had or had not played a major part in all this. Now, however, things were different, and he didn't give the humans more attention than they deserved, namely no more than the somewhat fleeting but still careful watchfulness he would display in the vicinity of a few skinny wolves. Wolves were actually rather shy, timid animals and only came close to or attacked humans or elves when they were cornered, hungry or surprised, but you could never be too careful.

This change of attitude surprised even himself. He was not someone who was prone to flying into sudden fits of fury like, for example, the dear King Thranduil (who doubtlessly owed that lamentable character flaw to all his hot Sindarin blood), but once incensed, it took him a long time to calm himself again. His temper was slow to build and equally slow to dissipate, and he could hold a justifiable grudge for a long, long time.

Now, however, his anger and hate had a worthier outlet than indiscriminatingly killing people who only deserved it to a certain degree. He was very, oh so very sure that all of the soldiers here were guilty, some more, some less, but he was willing to spare their lives – if they didn't attack him, that was. If they did that, he refused to be held accountable for his actions. He didn't worry about that, though; the soldiers he had encountered until now seemed rather uninterested in him or at least in attacking him.

Glorfindel smiled grimly, dodging a pair of servants who were running right at him. It would be so much more satisfying to kill Gasur than to kill a few soldiers who only bore some of the responsibility. He had given Erestor his word that he would kill Acalith's captain, and that was just what he was going to do, with a smile on his lips and no regrets in his heart. And it would make him feel a tiny bit better, too, he guessed. It wouldn't be enough to free himself of the self-loathing, anger, pain and guilt that was threatening to choke him, but it would be a step into the right direction.

That thought brought back the memory of how Erestor had looked when they had found him, how he had sounded… Glorfindel ended that particular line of thought right then. Erestor never sounded like that, so helpless and hopeless and uninterested in what was going on around him (not even in the barely veiled insults and threats he had thrown at him as a last, desperate resort), and for that alone he would have killed Gasur. Erestor had fought in the wars like most of the male elves his age, but he had never been a warrior. He was a scholar who should never have had to deal with something like this, not after all these long years of relative peace and quiet.

This man, this ... creature, whatever he was, had put his friend into a position he had no business being in. If anybody should have been in that cell, it should have been him. It was his duty to protect his lord, his home and every single one of its inhabitants, and it was a duty he took very seriously, or "too seriously, you stupid Vanya; just try to get it into that rock-hard head of yours that you are not indestructible!", if one believed Elrond's chief advisor. Erestor should have been at home where he belonged, and if he had been more careful and had paid more attention to what his instinct had been telling him, that's where the arrogant Noldo would have been. So, yes, it might have been his fault as well, but _he _hadn't been the one to chain Erestor to a wall and torture him within an inch of his life.

Oh no, Glorfindel resumed grimly, the anger that was simmering in his heart growing even hotter. He hadn't done that. It had been Gasur, and for that the man would pay – if he could find him.

Glorfindel shook himself out of his musings and forced himself to concentrate, telling himself that he had no time to spare. He knew that Annorathil and the others would do their best to locate Elrond and bring him to Erestor as quickly as possible, but, well, he himself had always been particularly good at finding the half-elf. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he would be able to get help for Erestor.

Satisfied with that particular reasoning, Glorfindel hastened his steps, avoiding another group of panicking humans. If his calculations were correct, he should be close to the western section of the walls now, and should reach the large door leading to the western part of the courtyard any second. The guard who had rather willingly shared this piece of information with him – the man had taken one look at his face and had needed little prompting after that – had insisted that Gasur's quarters were in this part of the house, and that the armouries and the officers' stables were also located in this area. If there was one place where one could hope to make one's escape unnoticed, it was here.

That was at least what Glorfindel hoped the man would do. If he did not and if he was still somewhere in the main courtyard or if he had been faster than he'd thought and had already made his escape, it would take a lot longer to find him. The golden-haired elf sped up his walk. That would not do.

He rounded a corner, gave a male servant who actually looked as if he was thinking about challenging him a dark look that obviously quelled any thoughts of resistance, and smiled slightly as he saw the wide-open, ornately carved doors that the terrified soldier had described to him earlier. A steady stream of humans were rushing out of it and hurrying down the stone steps, clearly only intending to escape. Even though he could clearly hear the battle in the background, it hadn't reached this part of the courtyard yet; all he could see were humans running from one end of the yard to the other in mindless panic.

In less than five seconds he had reached the door and was outside, unconsciously tightening the grip on his sword's pommel. He was badly outnumbered here, and didn't really know what he would do if the guards he could see came to their senses and realised that, too. He very much doubted that they would – they didn't look as if they possessed the intelligence or even the calmness of mind for something like that – but if they did, he would be in rather deep trouble.

Shrugging that thought off like a cloak on a warm spring day, Glorfindel steadily made his way down the stone stairs. There was a large gate he could easily see from here; it had been forced open and its guards – if there ever had been guards – had abandoned it long ago. Men and women were hurrying into its direction even though it was evidently already almost completely jammed; there were simply too many people who wanted nothing more than flee the fight that was inevitably drawing closer.

Glorfindel found it quite remarkable that there wasn't a single man who was trying to enter the compound from without. It seemed that his earlier assessment of the city's inhabitants had been correct: They didn't really care what happened here, at least not enough to actually risk their lives to help their lady. They would surely have cared if she had been able to carry out her plans and had "restored them to their rightful place" and so on and so forth. Glorfindel had heard these words too many times in too many places, and he had seen them work their magic too often. He didn't have any illusions about the effect they could have on the Second People.

Deciding to take all this as the favour it was, Glorfindel turned slightly, trying to figure out where Gasur would have gone. The main gate was too obvious and far too crowded. The man wouldn't hide in his rooms or anywhere in the house or on the grounds either; he must know that someone would be coming for him. Judging by what Isál and Annorathil had told them, it seemed that Gasur was insane, but not completely stupid. He would try to get away while he still could and while the chaos was still aiding him. If he wanted to escape, he had to do it here and he had to do it now. There was no other way of here that promised some sort of success, and Gasur had to know it.

Glorfindel was about to turn to the right, into the directions of the stables, when a movement very close to him made him stop dead in his tracks, and before it had even fully registered in his mind, he had whirled around, his sword up and ready. His eyes widened slightly when he came face-to-face with a rather small, elderly human who was staring at him like a rabbit might stare at a serpent about to strike. For a moment, he thought that he was no more than another servant trying to escape – the Valar knew that there were enough of them around! – but then he took a second look and decided instantly that this human was anything but. The man's long, grey hair was bound back neatly, and his clothing was costly and richly adorned. He looked like your stereotypical councilman or advisor, and as much out of place as a fish out of water.

Glorfindel was in no mood to mince words or exchange pleasantries. He took two steps forward until he was no more than four or five feet away, and turned his sword slightly so the tip pointed directly at the councilman's throat. The small movement only served to call attention to the dried blood that covered the blade, but Glorfindel didn't even notice it. The man, however, definitely did.

"Who are you?" was all the golden-haired elf lord asked, his tone of voice very clearly stating that he would have no patience or understanding for excuses or subterfuges.

The man looked from the sword to him and back at the blade again, his face expressionless and almost blank, even though there was a small glitter of fear in his eyes that was accompanied by something that just might have been calculation. Oh yes, Glorfindel thought almost amusedly, this one definitely was a politician.

"I am Salir," the man finally answered quietly, but his voice was calm and did not betray the fear he obviously felt. "Lady Acalith's seneschal."

"Her seneschal," Glorfindel repeated coldly, looking at the man in new disdain. "What a coincidence." The man looked at him, faint confusion on his face, but Glorfindel was quite obviously not planning to elaborate. "And I assume you wish to assure me that you were opposed to her plans, tried everything to stop her and even pleaded for my men's lives?"

Salir looked at the tall,blond elf, his intuition that had been honed and sharpened over the many years in his lord's and then his lady's service failing him for once. He couldn't figure out what the elf was thinking or feeling – well, apart from fury and disdain, of course – and that was making him far more nervous than he wanted to admit. He had come here to try and escape like everybody else; he might have served his lord and lady faithfully and loyally, but that didn't mean that he was willing to effectively commit suicide. He had given the battle in the main courtyard only one look to know that it was already lost and that nothing but certain death would be gained from further resistance. What he hadn't counted on had been encountering this elf with his blood-encrusted sword, who glared at him so coldly that the look would have frozen the ears off a mountain hare.

Even so, he very much doubted that this strange being would be interested in lies. The elf was a warrior, that much was clear, and, judging by his words, an officer, probably a higher-ranking one. That was not good; not good at all. He had said "my men" – he must have been talking about the guards that had been killed when the elf lord's advisor had been taken, then. He was quite clearly here for revenge, and Salir had the very bad feeling that he would know when he was being lied to.

"No," the man admitted, not feeling certain at all that that was the right answer. "No, I did not. I am her seneschal. It is not my place to question my lady's decisions."

Glorfindel's eyebrows rose until they almost touched his hairline. In all his years in Elrond's service, it hadn't once occurred to him to describe his duties thus.

"Isn't it?" he asked lightly, his mind obviously not on the conversation. "I happen to disagree." He paused and gave the elderly man a long look that made Salir feel as if he was made out of crystal. "If nothing else, I do appreciate an honest answer. Still, why shouldn't I just kill you right here and now?"

"Because I am not the one who is responsible for all this," Salir answered readily, his mind working so quickly that he was actually surprised that no one could see steam coming out of his ears. "Because I only followed orders, because I am unarmed and, more important yet, because I am not the one you seek."

"You followed orders without thinking, therefore you are as responsible as the one who issued them," Glorfindel retorted, his eyes darkening even further. "I have neither the time nor the patience for this. Whom do I seek, then?"

"Gasur," Salir retorted promptly. "Do you not, Master Elf? I would, if I were you. And if I were him," he went on, gesturing at the wall to his left, "I would be over there. There is a small gate in the wall, not known to many people. It is old and has been unused for many years, but it is a way out of here. Gasur will know it, of that I am sure."

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes at him.  
"And you were on your way to it, I would say."

"As it so happens, yes, I was," the grey-haired man inclined his head minutely. "I am no warrior, and I detest violence."

"Oh, but I am sure you do," the elf said, irony almost literally dripping off his words. He stared hard at Acalith's seneschal, urgency and distrust warring inside of him. He didn't believe this man, wouldn't believe him if he told him that rain was wet, but there was … something … in his eyes that suggested that, just about this one thing, he could be trusted. "Why should I believe what you tell me about this gate, seneschal? Why would you be willing to betray Gasur to me?"

Salir smiled at that, a smile that was cold and triumphant at the same time.  
"Because, Master Elf," he replied enigmatically and paused for half a second, "what goes up must come down."

Glorfindel looked at him, cocking his head slightly to the side. He had stumbled into some sort of personal vendetta here, or so it seemed. He didn't know what the man was talking about, and he didn't care, either. He wasn't about to insult the Valar by questioning this unexpected gift.

"I hope you are not lying or trying to deceive me, human, for your sake," he finally said very calmly, taking a step forward until the tip of his sword rested on Salir's elaborately decorated robe, right above his heart. "If he gets away because of you, I will come back and find you, you can be sure about that. And then," he gave the grey-haired man a cold, tight, utterly serious smile, "I will not care at all if you are armed or not."

"Oh, I do hope that you find him, Master Elf," Salir retorted, the triumphant air still radiating off him in waves. "I do _so _hope that you find him."

Glorfindel gave him another look, not even trying to disguise the distaste and loathing he felt, and turned on his heel without another word. By the time he had reached the wall and begun to follow its course to the left, he had already half-forgotten Acalith's seneschal, his thoughts occupied by far more important things, for example by just how he would kill Gasur when he found him. Even though that had been a question he had been pondering for quite a while now, it hadn't got boring yet, and he was distracted from a particularly attractive mental image a few minutes later, when he stepped around a tree that had partly grown onto the ill-kept path he was following.

For a moment, he was actually surprised to see a group of four men stand in front of a small, open gate, next to six horses. Four of them were quite obviously their mounts, but the other two were laden with smaller boxes and rather heavy-looking bags. One of the humans, a middle-sized man with unbound, shoulder-long dark-brown hair, was holding the two pack horses' reins, and was right now trying to pull them through the narrow opening in the wall. The rest of the men were standing to his right, in front of the open wooden door, and were watching him as if he was accomplishing some great feat.

Glorfindel felt how the hot anger inside of him solidified into some sort of strange, icy rage. So this was Gasur, the man who had killed his guards, had imprisoned and tortured Erestor, Elrond's youngest and the prince and had tried to do the same with Elrohir and his men. The man looked rather normal and definitely not like a psychopathic madman, with his ordinary features and the dark leather bracers that were encircling his wrists. Since the disaster with Annatar, however, Glorfindel and every single elf still residing in Arda knew oh-so-very-well just how deceiving appearances could be.

The men hadn't noticed his appearance, and so Glorfindel cleared his throat meaningfully, making all of them whirl around so quickly that he could almost hear their spines protest.  
"It would go a lot quicker if you were to lead them through the gate one at a time."

The four men simply stared at him as if he was an apparition out of the deep, something that probably wasn't all that farfetched. He guessed that he didn't really look like an epitome of kindness and forgiveness right now.

He took a step forward, using the men's momentary paralysis to manoeuvre himself closer to them. Gasur seemed to shake off the shock first, letting go of the reins he was holding and carefully taking a step to the side so that he was shielded by one of his men. Glorfindel had thought it highly unlikely, but the loathing and hate he felt for this man went up yet another notch.

"What do you want, _elf_?" Gasur asked, outwardly showing no sign of fear or nervousness. He couldn't fool the senses of an elf, however; Glorfindel could almost _smell _his nervousness. "A bit far away from your friends, aren't you?"

"Oh, but so are you, Gasur," Glorfindel retorted emotionlessly. He smiled openly at the surprise and dread that was beginning to spread over the man's face at his words. "Yes, I know who you are. Gasur, the 'Fox', murderer, coward – your name does not matter to me. I knew I would find you here, trying to run away like a frightened dog."

The man's face slowly began to redden, and he stared at the elf hard, his light brown eyes alight with mad, irrational anger.  
"Careful, _elf_. Be very careful."

"Why?" Glorfindel asked disdainfully. "Why should I be careful? Things are different this time, _Captain_." The golden-haired elf pronounced the man's title with at least as much hate and disgust in his voice as Gasur when he said 'elf'. "I am not a helpless, bound prisoner. I am not at your mercy, and I do not have to shake before your wrath." He gave the three soldiers who were staring at him with wide, very frightened eyes a quick look before he turned back to Gasur. "Send the three of them away. We settle this now, right here, the two of us, without outside interference. Don't make me kill them, _adan_."

The dark-haired man gave him a cold, taxing look and took another step to the side with ostentation.  
"Do you honestly think that I would care?"

Glorfindel looked back at him, no emotions visible on his face. His features might have been cut out of stone, blank and cold and utterly expressionless.  
"No," he replied softly. "But, then again, neither do I."

His hand was already on his belt even while he was speaking the words. Before any of the three humans could even move, his fingers had closed around the hilt of one of his knives. Barely two seconds later, two of the men were already sinking to the ground as his blades found their targets, and the third joined them mere moments later, blood from a deep wound in his side slowly dripping onto the muddy ground. Glorfindel stepped over the bodies with the cool air of someone who had just taken a stroll in the garden, paying no attention to the fresh, bright red blood that clung to the blade of his sword.

Gasur stared at the blond elf and, for the first time in long years, a bright pang of real fear went through him, stabbing through his heart like the keen blade of a knife. There was nothing on the elf's face but determination and a terrible fury, and he found himself backing away without even thinking about it.

"Who are you?" he asked gruffly, giving his three soldiers an unbelieving look. There was no pity or anger in it, only a stunned surprise that the elf had managed to eliminate them this quickly and effortlessly.

Glorfindel actually stopped for a second at this question, a hoarse, cold laugh making its way past his lips. "Who am I?" he repeated, looking at the man almost a little bit wonderingly. "And here I thought that was obvious. I am Glorfindel, seneschal of Lord Elrond of Rivendell and captain of his warriors. You killed my men; you abducted and tortured my lord's advisor, his guests and his son. You abducted and tortured my _friends_. I am here in their stead."

"You are here for them?" Gasur spat, anger once again laying itself over his features. "For that blond one who deserved everything he got, for that whelp of a ranger, for the helpless little scholar who begged so prettily in the end? For the elves who fell like cattle before my men's swords? For _them_?" He shook his head disdainfully. "You know what I did to them, don't you? You know how your _friends _cried and begged me to stop, how the blond one writhed in agony when I rammed my knife into his stomach? You know about that?"

For a moment, Glorfindel literally saw red. The man's words reverberated in his head, growing louder and louder by the second, and only with an exceptional amount of willpower he managed to push them back and keep a firm grip on his control.

"Oh yes, I know," he told the man in a voice he barely recognised as his own. He quickly took a step to the side, putting himself between Gasur and the open gate. "This ends now. No more waiting. No more words, no more reasoning, no more stalling. No mercy and no quarter. Draw your sword, human. It is just you and me."

"And what makes you think that this will end any differently than the little 'conversations' I've had with your friends?" Gasur asked derogatorily. He did draw his sword though, most likely prompted by the truly murderous sparkle in Glorfindel's eyes. "The last elf who challenged me should be choking on his own blood right now."

Glorfindel's eyes darkened even further, the bright blue irises looking almost black now. He told himself very firmly that this … creature … was lying, that nothing he said was true, but he had a hard time convincing himself of that. And if he _was _telling the truth… Glorfindel's thoughts trailed off, and he felt how anxiety joined the cold rage that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. He had seen enough stomach wounds to know how small the chances of survival were, even for an elf. If Gasur was telling the truth, then Prince Legolas might be in serious trouble.

He turned his head slightly to the side and fixed Gasur with a cold, emotionless stare. Well, that was simply yet another reason why he should end this quickly, wasn't it?

"I know who you are, 'Fox'," he told the man nonetheless, taking half a step forward. He wasn't above a little bit of misdirecting if it got him what he wanted, and if the man was too distracted by his words to notice what he was doing, then that was his problem. "I know what you are concealing under those leather bracers; I know how desperate you are to hide your former identity. I know how you begged for your life in Lake-town no more than half a year ago. I know how you pleaded with the prince to spare your life, so spare _me _all this empty bravado."

Gasur stared at him, clearly surprised, and Glorfindel gave him a frigid smile.

"Oh, you didn't know that? The 'blond one' is Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, the son and heir of King Thranduil." Gasur paled somewhat at that, and Glorfindel's smile became even more frigid. The man would know who the elven king was and also of his (probably slightly exaggerated) reputation, just as everybody in Esgaroth did. "Even if – by some sort of miracle that I couldn't possibly fathom – you should manage to escape today, you are dead. There is no place in Middle-earth where you could hide from the king's wrath. Lord Thranduil is not the most understanding and forgiving of elves, and if you injured his son, he will hunt you down like a rabid dog." He shrugged carelessly. "But you know that, don't you?"

Gasur continued staring at him, backing away from him until his back hit the smooth stones of the wall. The fear inside of him turned into something else that just couldn't be panic, and he smirked nervously, something that looked more like a grimace.

"So why would he keep his identity a secret?" he sneered, trying to ignore the sweat that had broken out on his forehead. "Is he afraid of telling people who he really is? Mind you, it should make little difference now, considering that he's as good as dead, but still, why tell me now? Aren't you afraid that I might tell someone?"

Glorfindel only looked at him, cold and calm and composed like a carved statue.  
"No," he replied, shaking his head softly. "No, I am not. Because, by Elbereth Gilthoniel, you won't get any chance to do so."

Even to Gasur it didn't have to be explained just what that particular tone of voice meant, and so he was able to block the first, lightning-fast attack relatively effortlessly. The elf was a lot stronger than he looked, though, a lot stronger than any other opponent he had ever faced in battle. Before he even knew what was happening, his back was touching the wall once again, and he was hard-pressed to find enough space to manoeuvre. The blond elf didn't give him any chance to get his bearings, either, and all he could do was block the blows that were raining down on him as best as he could.

This fight was going ill, that was something the man realised after less than a minute of desperate blocks and fruitless counterattacks. The elf was seemingly everywhere, and if he didn't possess the ability to read his mind (something that began to sound ever more likely with every blow he blocked with ease), he was at least exceedingly good at reading him. It was a frightening and thoroughly disconcerting combination, and Gasur was beginning to believe that this strange, stirring emotion he felt just might be panic. He had to do something, and he had to do it soon, or it would be too late. He disliked fair fights – just who would choose to fight fairly if you could so easily ensure that the odds were in your favour? – but he had seen enough of them to know that he wouldn't last longer than another minute or two.

The golden-haired elf blocked another one of his attacks, one of the trickier ones that had surprised a lot of people in the past, looking as if he was nothing more than humouring a child who was learning to wield a blade. Gasur felt how the ever-present anger in his heart flared to life once again, pushing back the fear and filling his limbs with new strength. He would not be beaten by an elf, not even by this one!

Gasur lashed out with his sword, the all-consuming anger making the movement smooth and fast. For a mortal, it would have been hard to block the blow, but Glorfindel merely stepped slightly to the side and brought his own sword up with a movement that could almost have been called lazy. The two blades met with a clash, and even though Gasur pushed with all his strength, the elf's sword didn't budge even a single inch. He didn't look as if he was doing anything strenuous either, and merely gazed at him with those cold, blue eyes that could as well have been painted pebbles. There was nothing in those eyes, nothing but a faint curiosity and something else he could not identify, but if Gasur had been of the superstitious kind, he would have said that it was his death that was visible there, waiting for him.

Acalith's captain was not a superstitious man, however, unlike his hopefully already deceased colleague Reod. He was a realist, though, and therefore allowed the elf to push him backwards, into the direction of the wall. In the last moment, he twisted to the side, determined not to let himself be cornered like this, and even while he was moving, his left hand went to the back of his belt, to the hidden sheathes in which he carried his knives in battle. He had always preferred his knives to a sword – they were so much more handy and also made everything a lot more personal – and had, in addition to that, also found that most men didn't expect to be confronted with them in a sword fight, naïve fools that they were.

The man was already grinning in anticipation when he brought down the dagger, aiming for the elf's unprotected left side. The grin vanished in an instant when his blade hit nothing but air, but he wasn't given long to ponder this. A kick to his own left side sent him flying forward, and he impacted headfirst with the stone wall. Only the fact that he fell to his knees for a second saved his life, for he could feel the breeze of a blade that was cutting through the air right above his head. Desperation and panic lending him strength, Gasur pushed himself back to his feet and whirled back around to the elf, only to see that he needn't have worried. The elf was standing a few feet away, watching him out of darkened, merciless eyes in the same way in which a warg would have watched a helpless fawn.

"I am disappointed, _adan_," Glorfindel told the captain in a lenient tone of voice, shaking his head slightly in disapproval. "That trick was already old when I was young, and _that _means something. I had expected something more original from you."

"Your friends weren't disappointed," Gasur spat, averting his eyes against his will. There was nothing but the promise of death and revenge in the other's eyes, and he wouldn't look at it a second longer than he absolutely had to.

"So I have seen," the elf lord retorted in a calm tone of voice that was belied by the angry fire in his eyes. "Come now," he went on, gesturing with his free hand, "is that all you have? Is there nothing more? An elfling could beat you, with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back."

The man looked at him with wide, too bright eyes that clearly spoke of the ever-growing panic that was growing inside of him.   
"Your friend couldn't, though," he told him spitefully, carefully edging away from the golden-haired elf. "He didn't put up much of a fight while we were slaughtering his men!"

Even the most imperceptive person would have noticed that that had been the wrong thing to say. The darkened eyes became even blacker and more merciless, and finally, after all these years, the 'Fox' could understand why people talked about the Elves the way they did. There was _something _on the elf's face – or rather behind it, as if it was hiding behind a mask that was firmly affixed to his features. Now, however, the mask had weakened or slipped, and for only a second the man could glimpse something so mighty and terrible that it made his breath hitch in his throat. There was something there that was as old as the hill on which Donrag was built, something old and ruthless and pitiless that made the elf look even more terrifying.

"My friend," Glorfindel began in a very, very soft tone of voice, not moving a muscle, "is a scholar. An advisor, a teacher, a councillor – not a warrior. It is not his duty to fight; it is his duty to make sure that all others possibilities are tried so that _we _don't have to fight and kill. He has ten times the courage you could ever have, _móradan_." He looked at Gasur, his head cocked slightly to the side, and gave him a look full of all the hate and loathing and guilt that was building inside of him. "It is _my _ duty to protect those who are members of my lord's household, and all those he names guests and friends. I have failed that duty, but I am more than willing to make up for it."

Before he had even spoken the last word, Glorfindel was moving, so quickly that Gasur barely saw more than a fast-moving blur. He hadn't survived as long as he had by being a bad fighter, though, and so he dodged instinctively, ducking to the side. The movement had been meant to move him out of harm's way, but just the opposite happened. While the captain was still contemplating just how the elf had figured out into which direction he would be moving, a steely hand took a fistful of his shirt and slammed him against the wall once again, this time even harder than the first.

For a moment, the man was stunned, and he came to a second or two later, blood dripping down his forehead. The hand that had banged him against the tall stone wall was still gripping his clothing, and the knowledge that it must the elf's hand was enough to make Gasur open his eyes again. He immediately wished that he hadn't, for he looked into the coldest, most pitiless eyes he had ever seen attached to any breathing creature.

"Do you feel it now, _adan_?" the blond elf asked softly, his blue eyes boring into Gasur's light brown ones. "The fear, the paralysing dread that makes it impossible to move or think or breathe? I know it well; too well, really. Erestor should never have known it. Now he does, and all because of you, because of your narrow-minded hatred and pathetic anger. Do you feel it, Gasur? Mark it well, for it will be the last thing you ever feel."

Gasur looked back at the death that the elf's eyes promised him, and it actually took him some moments to realise that he still held his sword in his hand that was dangling at his side. The elf was standing in front of him, one of his fists bunched in the material of his shirt, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

Twisting to the side, the man brought the blade up, intending to slice open the elf's side. Glorfindel was already gone, though, having seen the attack coming a long time ago. He side-stepped the attack, moving lazily to the side, and raised his own sword. While Gasur was moving past him, unable to stop his own momentum, the blade moved through the air and neatly cut his throat from one ear to the other.

Acalith's captain fell to the ground as abruptly as a puppet whose strings have just been cut, blood gushing out of the gaping cut. There was a horrible, gurgling sound to be heard that would have stirred pity in Glorfindel's breast if it had been coming from anyone but this man, and Gasur's hands were futilely reaching up, as if he was trying to stem the flood flow with nothing but his fingers.

Glorfindel paid all this almost no attention at all and merely sheathed his sword with a slow and very deliberate movement, not even deigning to look at the man. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment and finally turned to Gasur, staring into the man's failing, disconcerting brown eyes. There was neither satisfaction nor regret on his face and only a cold, unreadable look in his eyes, as if the whole episode had been nothing but a troublesome formality.

"Thank Eru for this, _adan_," he told the dying man in a completely unemotional tone of voice. "Thank him that I am in a hurry; thank him that I do not have the time to make this last as long as you deserve. Thank him that I do not get the chance to do what I had planned."

There was nothing Gasur could have said to that, with his throat neatly slit from one side to the other, and so all that could be heard were the gurgling noises that grew weaker by the second. The sounds of the battle drew closer still, but Glorfindel ignored them and kept staring at the fading man in front of him.

He had kept his promise to Erestor, the elf lord told himself when the gurgling finally stopped completely. He had not failed his friend in this at least. It didn't really matter, not when one considered how badly he had already let him down, but it was better than nothing. In some dark way it would help the other elf, that he knew, and even despite everything that had happened and everything this man had done to Erestor, he was relieved that all he felt at his death was a deep satisfaction and no real joy.

This … creature hadn't merited more, and he was glad about it.

Glorfindel gave the dead captain a last, long look and decided that satisfaction was more than enough before he turned back to the house to fulfil his other promise and find Elrond.  
**  
****  
****  
**

There were some things you never forgot, Elrond decided, like swimming or riding a horse. No matter how much time passed since you'd last done it – and considering that elves were immortal, that could be quite a long time indeed – you always remembered how to do it without even having to make an effort.

Fighting was another one of these things, and so was killing.

Since the horrible, tragic days that his former advisor Cornallar had brought upon them, when Aragorn had suddenly disappeared, he hadn't fought against men. And even then he had been too busy with Cornallar himself to concern himself too much with the mercenaries the other elf had hired, and too busy keeping himself and his adopted son alive. Before that, he hadn't taken up a sword against the Second People in anger and wrath for thousands of years, not since the War of the Last Alliance.

This was different, though, horribly different in a way he did not even want to think about. The men he was fighting, the men he was _killing_, weren't thralls of Sauron who were doing his bidding willingly. They were normal humans who, under more fortuitous circumstances, would have become farmers, or smiths or innkeepers. One false decision, one wrong turn was all it took, and now they were facing him and his men, completely without any chance at all of beating them or even escaping unscathed. He was relatively certain that few of them actually believed in what they were doing or even knew why they were doing it and that they were only following orders.

That didn't excuse their actions, of course. Elrond was enough his father's son to look dimly and decidedly disinclined to mercy upon those who hurt his guests, his people and especially his family, and he was in no mood to look for excuses for the men he was fighting. They were adults, after all, and made their own decisions. Every decision had consequences, and if these soldiers hadn't been able to realise that … well, then it was high time that someone demonstrated it to them.

The thing that was bothering the half-elf, however, was that he had indeed not forgotten how to fight. He still knew how to – there was, after all, little difference between fighting an orc and fighting a man – but there was something else he hadn't felt in a long time, longer than he actually cared to remember: The fierce joy that could consume you, the feeling of invincibility that a battle could give you.

Elrond stopped for a moment to get his bearings, his eyes following the elven warriors that had finally managed to break through the men's lines. His lips thinned as he realised that that was just it: He was enjoying this, far more than he should have. His Noldorin blood was strong, and the sweet call of vengeance was something that was not easily ignored. All he could do was hold on to his control and self-restrained and force himself not to let himself be carried away with it. He didn't want to kill these men, after all, not really, anyway. They might deserve it in some way, but he still had a firm enough grasp on the situation to know that it would be wholly, undeniably wrong. Nothing good would come of it but sorrow and grief, and it wouldn't help anybody.

Besides, the humans had fought bravely, and that was something he had to honour. They had been desperate, granted, but the defences that brown-haired officer had thrown up in all haste had held far longer than he had thought possible. Elrond frowned while he waved his long, blood-encrusted sword to the left, shouting and gesturing at Meneldir to take his men further to the left and close the gap in their lines. He didn't know what had happened to the man, but the last time he had looked into his direction Elladan had been there, facing the human with his blade drawn and ready.

Elrond wouldn't have wanted to bet much on the officer's chances of survival. If there was one thing that was not to be contested, it was that the twins could be stirred to a rather impressive wrath, and that they took any attack on each other or their siblings very, very personal indeed. That thought was enough to send a cold shiver down his back, and Elrond gripped his sword more tightly and strode forward. His youngest son was missing somewhere in Aberon, his second youngest son was missing somewhere here, and his oldest son was apparently right now going on a killing spree. He wasn't completely sure about it, of course, but he was rather certain that he should do something about that.

He gave the courtyard a quick glance, and with open glee that was rather unbecoming an elf lord he realised that it was going quite well. Over to the right, close to the main stairway and the scaffold, Elladan's warriors had broken through the men's lines. Elladan himself was nowhere to be seen, but there were simply so many warriors crowding around the scaffold that that wasn't particularly surprising. On the left side, everything was going well enough, too; Isál's commanders, Meneldir and Dólion, were doing a fine job directing their warriors.

Essentially, everything was going according to plan. It was the thing that probably frightened him the most – if he had learned one thing over the past few millennia, it was that anything that looked too good to be true usually was, too. The last thing everything had been going according to plan during a battle, Sauron had appeared and had slain his friend and king. Even though he doubted that something like that would happen again, it was a rather disconcerting realisation.

Deciding to ignore said realisation, Elrond pushed his way through his warriors who had reached the main building by now. There was a door visible to the right, clearly a service entrance of some sort, and even while he was watching, the first elven warrior reached it and disappeared inside the mansion. The soldiers had already been in more or less full retreat by the time their line had collapsed, and were now chaotically fleeing from the advancing elves. The warriors let them go; they were angry, yes, but none of them would sink so low as to strike down a fleeing enemy.

Confident that everything was as much under control as it probably would be in the next few hours, Elrond made his way over to Meneldir, Isál senior captain. During the battle the blond elf had acquired a cut to his left arm and another bruise to his face that went quite nicely with the one that was already decorating his left cheek, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. He was in the process of separating his men into two groups, a larger one that would sweep the courtyard and a smaller one that would follow the fleeing men into the house, and seemed to be enjoying himself. If his brief captivity in the salt-mines had affected him in any way, he certainly did not show it.

The commander paused when his lord joined his men and him, still looking calm and regal even despite the blood that was coating his drawn sword and covering his clothing.  
"My lord?"

Elrond waved the unspoken question aside and gave the younger elf a quick smile.  
"Do not worry, Commander. I am quite all right." Meneldir looked somewhat dubious at that, but was apparently too polite to disagree. "I will have to borrow your men," Elrond went on, looking at the smaller group of elves. "There is something of which someone has to take care. Try to find my son or Lord Glorfindel; if you can find Lord Glorfindel, he is in charge, if not, Elladan is."

The blond elf inclined his head smoothly, looking very much as if he was forcibly restraining his curiosity.  
"Of course, my lord. We will find them."

"A good thing it will be, too," Elrond returned the smile that was at odds with his dishevelled, blood-spattered appearance. "They are bound to be in some sort of trouble. Don't let Lord Glorfindel's manner fool you, _pen-neth_. He is very capable of finding a lot of trouble on his own."

Meneldir was clearly trying to figure out what to say to that – to disagree would seem disrespectful, and to agree was a very bad idea since Lord Glorfindel heard about everything – but Elrond had already turned and begun to hurry over to the mansion, the young commander's warriors at his heels. A few moments later, their little group had crossed the threshold and made its way up the simple stone steps that led up to the first level of the building. As soon as he had stepped off the landing, Elrond looked about himself and moved forward, spying a small man who looked like a servant, standing no more than ten yards away and staring at them with wide eyes.

Less than a second later, the man's back was pressed against the stone wall of the corridor and he was staring at one of the grimmest faces he had ever seen in his life. The dark-haired elf in front of him was resting the tip of his bloody sword against the wall next to his cheek, and the man had to drag his eyes away from the blood-encrusted blade to look at the elf who was holding it. Behind him, there was a small group of elven warriors, spread out in the narrow corridor, and to say that they looked unfriendly would have been the understatement of the century.

"Where is she?" was all that the elf asked, his voice sounding almost friendly.

"S-she?" the man stammered. Later he would be able to swear that his heart froze under the glare that hit him then, a glare full of carefully controlled anger that was as terrible and dark as a moonless night in Mordor.

"Yes, she," Elrond repeated, his voice not so friendly anymore. "Your lady. Acalith. Where can I find her? Where are her personal quarters?"

The man had been one of Lady Acalith's servants since she had married their lord, and he considered himself faithful and loyal. Now, however, when faced with this stony-faced elf and his equally stony-faced companions, all thoughts of misdirection or deception fled from his mind as if they had never existed. Nobody in their right state of mind would seriously have thought about lying to this dark-haired elf.

"Up … up a level," the human replied, fear almost choking him. "Then down the corridor … the third door on the right."

For a moment, Elrond merely looked at him, but then the blade next to the terrified man's head was removed and the elf lord smiled at him. "Thank you."

The man was staring at him as if he had just stated that he was in reality a particularly humourous orc in disguise. He didn't even try to run away when Elrond stepped away from him, nodded at his men and turned on the heel, walking back the way he had come. The half-elf had already forgotten the small man when he reached the second floor and turned right, counting the doors as he passed them.

Faint surprise went through him when he realised that there were neither guards here nor anybody else. The servants and inhabitants of this level must have abandoned it a while ago when it had become clear that the battle was decided. The corridor was dark and deserted, and the only thing that could be heard was the almost inaudible sound of their footsteps. Elrond's suspicions were roused immediately. He didn't know anything about Acalith, he had in fact never met her, but he was reasonably certain that she wasn't all that different from all the other human leaders he had met in his years. That there were no guards or handmaidens or anything of the sort could only be a bad sign.

Elrond was torn out of his musings when they reached the third door on the right, and he stopped in front of it, looking blankly at the beautifully carved wooden surface. He did not fight women and children nor would he ever – that was something he had sworn himself as an elfling on that horrible day when his childhood home had been destroyed by the sons of Fëanor – but he would see to it that Acalith was punished for her crimes. She was the one who had planned Erestor's ambush, who had ordered his warriors to be killed, his sons and friend to be tortured and perhaps killed and on whose orders Elrohir had almost been executed, and he would be damned if he would let her escape.

For a moment, memories resurfaced of how he had rounded the corner of one of the storage buildings and had come face-to-face with a scene that might have come right out of his worst nightmares, causing a cold shiver to run down his back. The sight of Elrohir being pushed up that scaffold had been enough to almost make him lose control, and if it hadn't been for the half-worried, half-scared looks that Meneldir, Dólion and the other officers had shot him, he might have done just that. He didn't know how Elladan had managed to restrain himself; he guessed it had been connected to a number of threats and the liberal use of force.

The half-elf shook himself inwardly. Elrohir had not died, he was sure he had not. He had lost sight of his son during the battle – of both of them, actually – but he was sure that Elrohir was still alive; he would have felt it had one of the twins had died. What he wouldn't have felt was if Aragorn had died – and perhaps he already had. He wouldn't know until it was already too late, and this sudden realisation that he had been ignoring ever since they had left Aberon suddenly took a hold of him and almost choked him.

With a supreme amount of willpower, Elrond forced it back down, refusing to allow himself to be overwhelmed by it. There was nothing he could do to help his human son; he would have to trust Tibron to do what he could. Aragorn was with Tibron's own son and nephew, so the man would do everything in his power to find the three young men. It was a small consolation, but definitely better than nothing.

Squaring his shoulders, Elrond reached out with his left hand and pushed the door open. He crossed the threshold, his long grey cloak trailing after him, his left hand still gripping the pommel of his sword. He tensed unconsciously as his still sharp warrior instincts told him that there might be danger looming; if there was a good place for an ambush, it would be here, when you had to walk down a narrow corridor to reach the main room. Nothing happened, however, something that surprised him very much. No one tried to stab, strangle, shoot at or attack him in any way, and Elrond stepped unhindered into the main room, his warriors following close behind.

It was the room of a lady, that much was clear at a single glance. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with finely woven tapestries, and colourful rugs covered the cold stone tiles. The room they had entered was a sitting room of some sort, with some armchairs, a large fireplace and a large wooden table. To the right, there was a door that stood slightly ajar and seemed to lead to a large bedroom; the corner of a large four-poster bed could just be seen through the crack.

At first, Elrond thought that they were too late and that Acalith had already fled. It wouldn't have surprised him overly much; they had given her ample time to realise that her soldiers would lose this particular battle, after all, and therefore ample time to make her escape. A moment later, however, a small movement caught his eye and he turned to the left, his hand automatically tightening on his sword. It took him a moment to realise what had alarmed him, but then he saw that what he had thought to be yet another tapestry was in fact a curtain that hid a large picture window. Right now, it also hid the figure of a young woman, who turned around to face them, pushing back the curtain in the process.

The first thing Elrond noticed was how young she looked; she could not be much older than Aragorn. She was beautiful as well, he thought, with long, dark, curly hair, dark-blue eyes and white skin. The dark gown she was wearing was of the finest quality, accentuating her pale skin and flowing around her slender figure. She would have been truly beautiful if it hadn't been for the merciless, cold, haughty sparkle in her eyes that no amount of trying would ever be able to hide.

The young woman raised an eyebrow and gave the half-elf a condescending look, managing to infuse such a simple action with almost incredible arrogance. Elrond noticed that there was only a low railing in front of the open window, a railing that looked completely insufficient and caused the father of four children in him to start worrying immediately.

"So," the woman began in a tone of voice that clearly stated that she was only marginally interested in this conversation. "You must be Lord Elrond. It is a pleasure."

The half-elf looked back at her, not even wondering how she had known who he was. He hadn't expected her to have got to where she was now by being stupid, careless or badly informed.  
"And you must be Acalith. I knew your husband; he was a reasonable man. A strict man and prone to sudden fits of fury, maybe, but a fair one as well." Elrond paused for a second and then added, sounding mildly curious, "Did you kill him?"

To his surprise, Acalith did not try to deny it and merely smiled at him broadly, something that would have looked enchanting on someone else.

"He was a tedious old fool who liked his women silent, pliant and obedient. He slept with every servant girl he could his hands on, and expected me to accept it quietly and with good grace. I married him for his position, he married me for my looks, and if he had ever realised that I was more intelligent than him, he would have cast me out without thinking twice. And to answer your question: Yes, I did." She smiled again, this time so darkly that it almost caused Elrond to shiver openly. "Poison is a wife's best friend, wouldn't you agree?"

"I am trying to work out how it is possible that you are so young and your soul is already dead," Elrond answered, ignoring her question and not even trying to keep the loathing out of his voice. He didn't have an answer anyway; he was reasonably sure that Celebrían's 'best friend' wasn't poison. If his wife ever wanted to kill him, she wouldn't resort to something as unsatisfactory as that. She would take a knife and ram it between his ribs.

"Spoken like a true elf," Acalith sneered, the beautiful mask slipping for a moment. "What do you want? Kill me for my 'crimes'? Very well then, go ahead. I am unarmed."

"Neither I nor my men will harm you," Elrond retorted coolly. "We will take you to Aberon, where you and your supporters will stand trial and answer for your deeds."

For a moment, Acalith merely stared at him, looking almost amused, and finally started laughing loudly and deprecatively.  
"I? Stand trial in Aberon?" she asked when she had regained control over herself. "Allow myself to be judged by their council and their worthless citizens?" A cold, deathly certainty laid itself over her features. "Never."

"You have no choice in that matter," Elrond told her uncompromisingly and took a step forward that was mirrored by his men. "You can either leave this room on your own or you will be carried."

"Don't I now?" Acalith asked softly, turning back to look down onto the silent garden below her window. "I wonder where it all went wrong," she said quietly, as if to herself. "What was the point when it all got out of control? I should never have trusted Hurag. Never trust a man from Aberon, never." She turned back to Elrond, curious interest on her face. "What are you doing here? Everybody, every single person who was asked, said that you wouldn't risk attacking us, that you wouldn't risk your precious warriors for that. They all said that you wouldn't fight, that you don't _like _to fight."

The elf lord looked back at her, his face emotionless and cold.  
"Just because I do not like to fight does not mean that I cannot."

"No, it wouldn't," Acalith agreed with an irrational smile. "And just because you give me two options – to leave this room voluntarily or to be carried – does not mean that I will choose one of them."

Her smile widened as she took a step backwards and then another until the back of her knees hit the metal railing, her eyes not leaving the dark-haired elf's face. Elrond began to move forward, but stopped as soon as he realised that he would only alarm her further and would never reach her in time.

"I will not be judged by _them_," the young woman went on. "You are too late, though. They are going to the deepest pits of the underworld, just as they deserve, and there is nothing you can do about that." She gave Elrond a last, erratic smile. "Tell your advisor – if you find him alive – that I will miss our little conversations. They were infuriating, but also very entertaining."

Before Elrond or one of the warriors could move a single muscle, Acalith had turned around, her long hair flying wildly about her head. With a single step she had climbed over the railing, and another step sent her over the edge of the windowsill. There was a long silence and then a soft thump as her body hit the ground far below.

Elrond took a deep breath, automatically sheathed the sword he was still gripping and slowly walked up to the window. Even though he did not want to, he leaned forward, his eyes wandering over the dark garden until he found the twisted, still figure of the young woman who was lying half on the ground and half on a stone bench. She was quite clearly very dead.

Another elf stepped up to him, peered over his shoulder, and turned back to his companions, shrugging and shaking his head.

"Good riddance," one of the warriors mumbled under his breath, something that Elrond studiously ignored. He couldn't disagree, after all.

The way back to the courtyard took a lot longer. The fighting had finally shifted here into the house, and even though there were few soldiers who were still willing to resist, there were panicking humans everywhere who were desperately trying to get out of the house and to safety or who were simply taking advantage of the chaos to grab whatever valuables they could find. In the end, the small group of elven warriors simply ignored the humans around them and pushed their way through the crowds, having figured out that it took far too long to go around them.

Elrond was just side-stepping an elderly woman who was running down the corridor, a large golden plate in her arms, when a shout drew his attention.  
"_Ada_! Over here!"

The half-elf's head whipped up and around, and before one of his warriors could even blink, he had moved forward with a speed that was quite impressive. A moment later he was fiercely hugging the tall, dark-haired figure of his younger twin son, gripping the younger elf so tightly that any objective observer would have got a little bit worried.

"Elrohir," the elf lord breathed softly, gripping his son's forearms while stepped back and surveying his wayward child closely. "Never do that again, do you hear me? Never! Whatever were you thinking?"

"Yes, _ada_," Elrohir answered obediently, a broad grin of pure relief on his face. "I will try not to. Getting almost executed gets rather tedious with time."

"I can imagine," Elrond smiled back. The smile disappeared quickly enough, though, and he added, worriedly, "Are you all right, _ion nín_? Are you hurt?"

"No, I am fine," Elrohir tried to comfort his father. "I have to admit that it was a close thing, though. I was very relieved about Elladan's spectacular entrance."

"Yes, he is good at that," his father agreed wryly.

"Very," Elrohir nodded, giving their surroundings a quick, wry look. "So the house is not quite under control yet?"

"No," Elrond admitted. "Their lines just crumbled. We managed to push our way through in the end, but they fought harder than I would have thought."

"They were desperate," the younger elf shrugged. "And who can blame them?" He paused when a thought seemed to strike him. "What are you doing here then, father? Why have you separated from the rest of the warriors? Has it something to do with Elladan? Did you lose him?"

Elrond almost smiled at his son's open worry.  
"No, it hasn't. Elladan is outside and should be just fine. Young Celylith and Captain Isál are with him; they should take care of him."

"Good," Elrohir nodded. "I know how much he likes to gloat, and I would hate to see him robbed of such an opportunity." He looked up at his father, eyes dark and calm. "I met Hurag."

Elrond only nodded slowly, not having to ask just what his son was telling him.  
"And I Acalith. She jumped out of a window."

"Yes, she would have," Elrohir replied, unaffected.

The news clearly didn't surprise the twin. He was about to say more, but suddenly he stiffened as he remembered Legolas' pale, blood-smeared face that had looked so dead and lifeless when he had last seen him, when he had been pushed up the stairs to the scaffold. There was something else, a horrible knowledge connected to something Acalith had told him, but all he could remember in his panic was his blond friend's white face.

"_Ada_!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening suddenly. He unceremoniously grasped his father's hand and began to drag him to the left, into the direction of the courtyard. "Legolas!"

Elrond allowed himself to be dragged, worry beginning to gnaw at him like a voracious predator. It wasn't like Elrohir to lose his head like this.  
"Calm yourself, Elrohir. What happened to Legolas?"

"Gasur stabbed him," Elrohir replied, hastening his steps until he was almost running. Any man or woman who saw him coming only took one look at his face and took a step to the side in order to avoid him. "In the stomach, _ada_. He stabbed him, about half an hour before the attack, and _twisted_ the knife. I bound the wound as best as I could, but he was dying when I last saw him." His grip on his father's hand tightened. "You must help him, father. He was in so much pain … Elbereth, in so much pain…"

Elrohir's voice trailed off and he swallowed convulsively. He quickened his pace once again and Elrond let him, the worry transforming into a cold knot of dread that threatened to choke him. A stomach wound. A bad stomach wound that was about an hour old and had basically been left untreated…

The Valar help them, and the prince most of all.  
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Whether it was oxygen deprivation, the severity of his wounds or pure and simple exhaustion, Aragorn would never know, but his brain decided that it had put up with more than enough and that there were limits to everything.

Aragorn frowned inwardly, trying to decide whether or not it was normal that it felt as if his brain had departed once and for all. Probably not, but he was by no means certain about that. Right now he wouldn't have been able to tell anybody what colour his own eyes were. Blue probably, he decided fuzzily. Or maybe green; he was reasonably sure that they weren't brown, at least.

The young ranger was brought out of his musings when he was suddenly dropped to the ground, the fingers that had been gripping his throat loosening suddenly and without warning. He hit the ground hard with his wounded left shoulder, and the pain that went through him at the contact was so fierce that it literally robbed him of the ability to breathe. It also helped him clear his head, though, and that was something he desperately needed. He somehow had to make up for the fact that his brain had abandoned him, hadn't he?

When the red haze that had laid itself over his eyes had receded sufficiently for him to see, Aragorn shook his head again, unwittingly causing it to start spinning once again. By now he was so used to it that he hardly even noticed. Ignoring the way the world was swaying not-so-gently, he looked about himself, sudden fear and hope surging through him all at once.

He was lying on the ground next to Addric, the mercenaries' leader, who was directing his men with his drawn sword. The blade was waving from side to side in an increasingly agitated manner, something that Aragorn found highly pleasing. The brown-haired man was looking none too happy either, his eyes wide and angry and his face twisted into a dark grimace. Only the fact that he was lying no more than three feet away, bound and helpless, prevented Aragorn from starting to laugh loudly. It was so very satisfactory to see the man thus.

Addric's men were in the process of fending off their attackers who had stepped out of their hiding places and were attacking them openly now. There were far more men who were attacking their position than defenders, but the mercenaries were quite clearly desperate. They knew that the men of Aberon would show little mercy if they were captured, and that knowledge gave them strength and speed their attackers found hard to match.

Aragorn decided to be optimistic, though, mostly because he simply didn't have the strength to keep pondering this situation any longer. The men of Aberon were outnumbering them almost two to one, and it was only a matter of time until the mercenaries' position would be overrun. They only had to wait a little more and everything would be over.

Under normal circumstances, Aragorn would have been highly unwilling to let others risk their lives for his sake while he lay on the ground and did nothing, but right now it sounded decidedly attractive. He was simply in no shape to be a help to anybody, and he was rather sure that he would be a threat to Tibron's men as well as to Addric's. He was having a hard time concentrating, and try as he might, the shapes of the fighting men would not stop blurring together into a formless mass. In the condition he was in at the moment, it was entirely possible that he would confuse one of his rescuers with one of Addric's men.

Valar, right now he wouldn't be able to tell apart a hobbit child and a Nazgûl.

The young ranger gave up on trying and lifting his head and had to fight hard to keep his eyes open. There was a fight going on, a fight that was loud enough to wake the dead, but sleep or unconsciousness had never sounded better. To simply relax and allow himself to float off into that dark sea of nothingness would be so wonderful…

Just when Aragorn was about to give in to that particular temptation – if his brain had already decided to abandon him, then why should _he _stay awake? – when a sound reached his ears, a sound he identified as voice that was calling his name. Or rather, one of his names. He couldn't remember any others, but he was sure he had more.

"Strider! Are you all right? Look at me!"

The sounds of the fighting were too loud for him to make out who was talking to him, and so he slowly and wearily turned his head to the right, frowning until his eyes reluctantly focussed on a face that was no more than two or three yards away. It was a face he knew, he realised that after a heartbeat or two.

Aragorn frowned again while he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Torel was crawling towards him, his hands free and a knife grasped tightly in one of them. The young man's face was very white and tense, and Aragorn didn't even have to ask himself why. The blade of the knife was bloodstained up to the hilt, and even from his position the ranger could see the motionless body of one of the younger man's guards. The other seemed to have joined the fight, apparently sure that his companion could handle a bound boy who was barely old enough to shave.

He had apparently been wrong, something that pleased Aragorn immensely.

Torel finally reached him and, without any warning, grasped one of his bound arms and turned him over. Aragorn had been sure that the pain he was in simply couldn't increase, but he was swiftly proven wrong as white-hot agony shot through his wounded body. Only the fact that he didn't have enough strength to breathe stopped him from crying out in pain, but a soft, agonised moan made its way past his lips nonetheless.

"I am sorry, Strider," the young man told him immediately while he started to cut the ranger's bonds. "See? I'm already done."

Aragorn had known that even before Torel had spoken the words, for the sensation of blood that was rushing back into his formerly bound, numb hands was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Slowly he pulled his arms in front of him, feeling as if the appendages weren't even connected to his body and had merely been sewn on while he had been numbed by pain. They looked like his arms, though, and one of the fingers of his left hand was bearing the Ring of Barahir, so he was willing to accept – just for now – that they were indeed his.

"Thank you," he told the younger man, his voice rough with pain and exhaustion. He gave Addric a quick look, feeling very relieved when he realised that the brown-haired man had moved away from them and was far too busy with the fight to pay them any attention. There was something he knew they should be trying to do, and he finally could remember what. "Are you ready to get out of here?"

"I thought you would never ask," Torel smiled at him, grasping another knife he had shoved into his belt and pressing it into Aragorn's hands. "Which way?"

Aragorn wrapped his fingers around the dagger's hilt, deciding that that was a very good question indeed. Behind them, there was the dam, the wooden, battering ram-like construction still standing in front of it. The hole the men had dug was widening in front of their eyes as water trickled though the weakened dam, and Aragorn was reasonably certain that it wouldn't take too much to bring the entire construction down. On the other three sides, they were surrounded by fighting men who were entirely too concentrated on trying to kill each other to even notice their existence. The men of Aberon were winning, slowly but surely; they had begun to use their numbers to their advantage and press in on the mercenaries in a manner that barely left them space to move.

"Your uncle really overdid it here a little," he mumbled, not even noticing that he was speaking the words out loud. "He must have gathered half the town."

"Great Ones, and I have never loved him more," Torel replied fervently. "The more, the merrier, isn't that what they say?"

"Indeed," Aragorn replied, the ghost of one of his old grins dancing over his bruised features. "Very well, then. I think…"

He trailed off as his instincts suddenly screamed at him in warning. Not even fully realising what he was doing, he grasped Torel's sleeve and threw both of them to the side. This time, there was too much adrenaline pumping through his veins for him to fully notice the impact, and he had the opportunity to look at the bright, gleaming blade of a sword that cut through the air right where their heads had been just a moment earlier. The dark-haired ranger was already moving, forcing sluggish, uncooperative limbs to obey him, and he pushed himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily once he managed it.

Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise when he saw who had just almost beheaded him and Torel. He had thought that Addric had finally realised what was going on behind him and had decided to deal with them once and for all, or that maybe his own guards had remembered their duty and had returned. What he hadn't even remotely considered was that he would come face-to-face with Damil, the young man who had been one of Torel's friends when both of them had been younger.

Torel had pushed himself to his feet as well, and was now staring at his former friend with a mixture of surprise and loathing on his face.  
"You?"

The young man sneered at them, looking remarkably like his father Neran for a moment.  
"Yes, me! What is the matter, Torel? Are you surprised to see me?"

The curly-haired youth narrowed his eyes at the other, deciding that his father had been right for once. Damil was becoming more and more like his father, and if nothing happened, he would have turned into a washed-out copy of Hurag's supporter in less than a year.

"Yes, Damil, I am. I had thought that, no matter what your opinions are, you had a bit of your wits left." He paused, apparently realising that insulting the other would not endear himself to him, and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Throw down your weapon, Damil. I am sure I can convince my uncle that you weren't here on your own free will and did Hurag bidding only because you were afraid for your family's safety. Neither you nor your father have to be involved in this."

Damil snorted, his fingers tightening convulsively around the pommel of his sword. He was turning slightly to the side to face his former friend fully, barely even looking at Aragorn.  
"Throw down my _weapon_?" he asked incredulously. "Why would I do that? You are the one who will do so, if you do not wish to die by my hands!"

Torel rolled his eyes openly.  
"Look around you, Damil," he told the other man patiently. "Addric will be overrun. Hurag's plans have failed, and nothing you or anybody else do can change that. It is over."

"It is _not _over!" Damil insisted, sounding quite a bit like a spoiled child. "It is…"

Before he could finish the sentence, the pommel of a knife hit him right behind his right ear. Without warning, the brown-haired youth's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed where he stood, unconsciousness claiming him long before he even hit the ground. Aragorn calmly caught the sword that fell from his hands and shook his head before he looked up and met Torel's half-surprised, half-accusatory look.

"I am sorry," Aragorn told the younger man, sounding completely unapologetic. "I just couldn't stand it anymore."

Torel was starting to say something, looking almost amused, but then he froze suddenly, his wide eyes focussed on something behind Aragorn's shoulder. The ranger whirled around, adrenaline once again surging inside of him, and what he saw was almost enough to make his heart stop. The red haze once again laid itself over his vision, but Aragorn ignored it, all his thoughts concentrated on not giving in to the panic that was growing inside of him.

Addric was calmly turning around, turning his back on the fight his men were involved in. There were many things that were to be said about this man, but he wasn't stupid or blind. The lines of his men were crumbling; there were simply too many attackers who fought too viciously. His position would be overrun in less than a minute – no, make that less than half a minute. He and his men would be captured, and would probably die on the scaffold once the inevitable trial was over.

Whether Addric acted out of a warped sense of duty or because he wanted to take as many of his enemies with him as possible, Aragorn would never know, but the brown-haired man started running into the direction of the dam. The young ranger could only watch, wide-eyed, as the man skidded to a halt next to the battering ram, his face hard and cold and full of determination.

Before Aragorn even knew what was going on, he was moving, flying over the wet, muddy ground. Torel had started running in the same moment he had, the same desperation and fear on his face, but the young man reached Hurag's helper just a second before him, probably because his body was co-operating with him and his brain hadn't snuck out through his ears. Addric heard them coming, however, and turned just in time to meet Torel's attack.

Even with the element of surprise on his side, Torel was no match for a professional soldier like Addric. The brown-haired man merely stepped to the side and brought his own sword down, his superior strength and skill making it easy for him to push the younger man back. With a twist of his sword, he managed to free his blade of Torel's and lashed out with a leg, catching the young man squarely in the chest. Torel flew backwards and fell to the ground, winded and unable to move.

Addric was about to turn back to the battering ram-like construction when Aragorn reached him, his injuries screaming at him and slowing him down considerately. Addric grinned at him when their blades met with a crash and shouted something that was lost in the noise of the battle, but Aragorn had a fair idea of what the man had said. The only thing that was keeping him upright right now was adrenaline – lots and lots of it, in fact – and so Aragorn could do nothing more than grit his teeth and concentrate on not letting the man push him back. He was quite sure that he wouldn't withstand a kick such as Torel had received just a moment ago.

In the end, willpower and stubbornness were not enough, and Aragorn's arm wobbled under the strain, his strength finally spent. Addric sensed his adversary's weakness and pushed forward, forcing the ranger to give way. Their blades separated with a grinding noise, and even though Aragorn saw the manoeuvre coming long before Addric started to execute it, he didn't have any strength left to get out of the way. The brown-haired man's fist hit him squarely in the jaw, snapping his head backwards and causing stars to appear in his vision. Aragorn stumbled back, his cut back hitting the hard, cold earth of the dam, and for a few moments nothing mattered but the pain in his head and the fact that the little part of his brain that was still left was rattling loudly in his skull.

Finally, when the nausea and dizziness had abated somewhat, Aragorn opened his eyes again, dimly realising that he had lost the sword he had taken from Damil. He was still holding onto the dagger but could barely feel the smooth handle in his hand. It took his eyes a moment to focus on the scene in front of him, but when they did, his heart skipped a beat and cold panic filled his very being. The noise of the fighting behind him seemed to fade, as if it was suddenly very far away. Addric was standing behind the battering ram, both of his hands gripping the smooth wood. He was pulling the wooden block backwards as far as it would go, preparing to let go of it and allow it to smash into the dam.

Aragorn was moving before he even knew what he was doing. He was only four or five steps away from Addric, but they turned out to be three steps too many. He had barely began moving when Addric pushed with all his strength, letting the wooden battering ram impact with the weakened dam. Aragorn reached his side a moment later, his knife held high and about to strike, but he let it sink down again with a weary gesture. It was too late.

While he was thinking the words, the dam disintegrated. There were simply no other words to describe it. One second, there was a big hole in the dam that was oozing water, the next it was gone, replaced by a gaping opening that was widening by the second. The water that had been pressing against the structure shot through the opening with a roaring, deafening sound, hitting both of them with the force of a charging oliphaunt.

From one moment to the next, Aragorn was smashed against the side of the dam, unable to breathe or see or think. Icy water was everywhere, and the ranger's tired brain could hardly figure out where was up and where was down. He had been standing close enough to the dam to be caught in the less strong current that was going sideways, the current that wasn't pulling one with it through the hole but rather to the side, downstream. The dam itself was deflecting the main current sufficiently to create complete chaos where you could never predict in what direction you would be pulled next, and even if the young ranger had been in a less weakened condition, he was sure that he wouldn't have been able to resist it.

Before he knew what was happening, he was being pulled with it, out through the crumbling remnants of the earthen dam. Reaching about himself desperately, his fingers closed around something hard and solid. Realising that it was a part of the scaffold that Addric's men had put up here in order to hide their work, Aragorn's uninjured left hand grasped the wooden beam with all his strength. Something shot past him, looking a lot like Addric, and even though he was suffocating and weak and unable to see, Aragorn had to smile. If this wasn't poetic justice, then what was?

All mirth fled from his mind when his fingers began to slip, though, and Aragorn reinforced his hold, pouring all his remaining strength into the simple action of grasping the wooden beam and not letting go. He just had to hold on a little while longer, just a little while longer…

He was rudely torn out of his mantra when, even over the roaring sound of the water, he heard a choked cry of pain and fear. Blinking water out of his eyes, Aragorn saw something move towards him, a large shape that was waving its arms and legs frantically, the hands grasping futilely at the water in an attempt to stop its momentum. A part of Aragorn had already identified the shape while the larger part of him was still staring at it blankly, and his right hand shot out, grasping the edge of the figure's shirt.

The pain in his broken hand was almost enough to make him pass out, but Aragorn ignored it as best as he could, his eyes fixing on the pale features of Torel. The young man was staring at the swollen, bandaged hand that was firmly wrapped around the material of his shirt, his eyes wide and panicky in his face. He said something, too soft for Aragorn's ears to understand it over the deafening roaring of the water, but the pleading expression on his face was impossible to overlook or misinterpret.

Aragorn looked back at the younger man, trying to tell him without words that there was no way, _no way at all_, that he would let go of him. Torel began to try and bring his arms above his head to grasp Aragorn's hand, but he never made it farther than to the height of his shoulders. There was no way he could have heard Aragorn's shouted warning over the cacophony of sounds that was filling the air, and so there was a look of pure, unadulterated surprise on his face when the remains of the wooden battering ram impacted with his shoulder. The young man's body jerked violently, and even over the roaring of the water Aragorn could hear the tearing of cloth. Torel's head snapped up, his frightened eyes fixing on Aragorn's face, and then he was gone, carried away by the current so swiftly that Aragorn was still staring at the space he had occupied when he had long disappeared from view.

A sudden numbness began to spread inside of the young ranger that had nothing to do with the water's freezing temperature and that was only interrupted by the sharp, stabbing pain in his hands. Aragorn slowly and wearily raised his head, fighting against the current, and looked at his left hand, watching detachedly as one finger after the next slipped, his strength finally spent.

The last finger lost its grip and he was swept away, the current pushing him under the surface of the river as effortlessly as a troll trampled a flower. He had no strength left to fight or to resist, and all he could think of was how stupid it was to die like this, after everything he'd been through in these Valar-forsaken towns. Water began to fill his mouth and nose as he was pulled deeper under the surface, and when his head connected with something hard and unyielding a moment later, he was already well on his way into unconsciousness

The last thing he saw before the beckoning darkness swallowed him whole was the bright light of Eärendil's star that was shining down on him in all its cool, soothing glory.

But he knew that it could not be real, because no stars shone tonight, and the sky was covered with dark, grey clouds.

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_pin-nith (pl.) - young ones  
Dúnedain - 'Men of the West', rangers  
yén (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
mellon nín - my friend  
adan - human, man  
móradan - 'Man of darkness', a rather unfriendly name for the Second People  
pen-neth (sg.) - young one  
ada - father (daddy)  
ion nín - my son  
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So, that's basically it. All the bad guys are dead - the only problem is, who else is? Erestor, Legolas, Aragorn, Aberon in general - they really are in trouble, aren't they? So, stay tuned for the next chapter, in which we see who survives what and in what way. Oh, and: Sorry about Torel. My alter ego was demanding some sort of sacrifice, and who am I to refuse her? •evil grin• So, sorry. And, as always: Reviews? Yes, please!**

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Additional A/N:**

**The review responses will be coming next weekend, when I'm back from Israel. I humbly beg your forgiveness for this delay - this stupid chapter turned out to be far longer than I'd thought! Blame the characters, not me! Till next weekend, then - and thanks SO MUCH for all your support! •huggles readers•**


	37. No Winners, Only Losers

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**So, yes, I had a busy month. We had a lot of holidays here, and I had to make good use of them, of course. So, first I went to Israel - it was really, really nice. I liked it very much, and we had a lot of fun, even though I have to admit that Tel Aviv is one of the most breathtakingly ugly cities I have ever seen in my life - no offence. It's interesting and a lot of fun to go out, though.  
Then there was Semana Santa, and I went to Portugal for a week and a half with my flatmates to visit my mother who moved there a few months ago. It was wonderful, the weather was nice, and we essentially did nothing there all the time. Then we went to Lisbon, though, and that is really a wonderful city. If they spoke Spanish, I would move there immediately.  
And then, of course, was 1st of May, which the clever people of Madrid combine with another holiday so we had four days off in a row. I wanted to do nothing, but then we ended up visiting my flatmate in Salamanca. That was a lot of fun, too, only we didn't sleep too much.**

**So, now I'm back. I am sorry for this newest delay, but I've barely been home at all. I have also been thinking about how many more chapters this story will have, and I am leaning towards a long one or two shorter ones. I would prefer a long one (because then the story would have 38 chapters in total; you know that I'm strange like that •g•), but if it gets TOO long, I will have to cut it in two. Let's say for now, though, that this is the second-to-last chapter. I know, I know, time flies when you're having fun... Well, WE did, anyway. •evil grin•**

**Fine, so here's the right-now-second-to-last chapter, in which ... hmm, a lot of elven warriors are a little bit intimidated by their superiors (mostly because said superiors are rather displeased), we hear more about the bat (which would be one of the reasons why Elrohir is rather displeased), the twins see each other again (more reason for displeasure on Elrohir's part), Glorfindel makes an appearance (who is also rather ... do I really have to go on with this?), Elrond has to make a choice, Tibron gets some bad news and we are introduced to Ingvaer, Annorathil's crafty nephew who right now wishes he had a piece of string and a scrap of metal and some sort of problem to solve. Why? Well, we'll see...**

**Have fun and review, please!**

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Chapter 37

When Elrond re-entered the courtyard – or, to be more precise, was dragged into it – he had almost forgotten the state of chaos it was in.

Now, however, in the flickering, unsteady light that the moon and a few haphazardly-lit torched provided and with people hurrying to and fro, most of them trying to make some sort of escape, he was once again astounded by the scene that presented itself to his eyes. It did look quite a bit like some of the more chaotic battles he had been involved in during the first ages of the this world – the War of Wrath came to mind, for example, even though this here was on an incomparably smaller scale and there were a lot of very clear differences that didn't even have to be pointed out. This battle was missing Valar and Maiar, for one, and there were also no orcs or trolls present.

Or Dark Lords, thank the One, even though that would, strictly speaking, fall under the Valar-and-Maiar category.

Elrond shook his head a moment later and revised his opinion. That battle, when the Host of Valinor had come to their aid and had delivered them from almost certain doom, had been one of the most crucial – if not the most crucial – fights of his long life, while this here was hardly important at all. That was not completely true, of course. In the grand scheme of things, this battle here in Donrag was virtually unimportant, but to him it had been significant nonetheless – very significant. No one attacked his people without having to answer for it, and he would not stand idly by and watch while the people he loved were treated in such a way. Action and reaction, strike and counterstrike, hatred and anger, fear and pain … there were things that were irreversibly interwoven with one another and with revenge, and there was enough of his ancestors in him to know it, too.

His darker, probably mostly Noldorin side was still warring with the part of him that was trained in the healing arts and had seen more than enough battles, their aftermath and their victims, when he picked his way through the still bodies that littered the ground. A moment later, he and Elrohir stopped, a mere ten or fifteen feet from the bottom of the large staircase that led up to the main entrance to Acalith's mansion. This time, Elrond and the rest of Meneldir's men had taken the most direct route out of the house, namely the one through the main entrance, knowing that there was really no one who would seriously challenge them. The men here were most decidedly not the most intelligent ones ever to grace this world, but they were not stupid either, and none but the truly stupid challenged an elf lord in his righteous fury.

In front of him, Elrohir looked about him with wide eyes, surprise and something that might have been faint awe in the grey depths. Elrond couldn't blame him. After the twin had disappeared inside the house, the battle had intensified and grown more desperate, and the signs of that could be seen all over the courtyard. There were more bodies than the half-elf had seen in some years, and the sight filled him with some sort of profound sadness. It was enough to bring his darker instincts back under control, and Elrond looked around, feeling calmer once again even despite the worry that was gnawing at his heart.

"Where was Legolas the last time you saw him, Elrohir?" he asked his son, sounding far more composed than he actually was. "With Ferdhôl and the rest of your men?"

"Yes … yes," Elrohir answered distractedly. His eyes were wandering over the still bodies and the men that were hurrying from one side of the courtyard to the other, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he couldn't connect this yard to the one he had seen half an hour ago. Elrond also guessed that Elrohir was looking for his twin; no matter how worried Elrohir was about Legolas, he would be a good deal more worried about Elladan. "Yes, I think so. I do not know where they might have taken him."

"If he is as badly wounded as you say, they will not have moved him far, if at all," Elrond answered practically with the long experience that being a healer on a battlefield had given him. "Let us go there, then. I do hope … Commander!"

Elrohir turned around sharply and saw whom his father had spied amongst the men and elves that filled the space around them. Dólion, Isál's younger commander, had just stepped around two dead humans who were lying on the muddy ground, their limbs twisted and still. The young elf was looking decidedly dishevelled, but essentially uninjured. There seemed to be nothing wrong with him except a long cut that ran down the side of his face. It seemed to have bled profoundly, though, as head wounds tended to do, and so the dark-haired elf's appearance looked more than a little bit alarming.

Dólion hurried over to them once he saw them, a relieved smile spreading over his face. It appeared that he knew quite well that, repeated public announcements notwithstanding, even elf lords as old and experienced as Lord Elrond of Imladris could get themselves into trouble. _Especially _Lord Elrond of Imladris.

"Thank the Valar," was then also logically the first thing that escaped the young commander when he reached their side. "My lords," he inclined his head minutely at the two dark-haired elves. "I am so glad that I found you! No one had seen you for half an hour!"

Elrond doubted that he had been inside the house for that long, but he didn't think it necessary to correct the younger elf. Their absence seemed to have caused quite a stir, something which he couldn't really understand. That one would worry about Elrohir he could understand – he loved all his children dearly, but he would be the first to admit that all of them (even Arwen) possessed the disconcerting ability to manoeuvre themselves into perilous situations – but why would one possibly worry about him?

"We are quite all right, Commander. There is no need to worry." Dólion shot him a look that was just one step away from openly dubious, and Elrond would have smiled at it if he hadn't been remembering what Elrohir had told him mere moments earlier. "Have you seen Prince Legolas, Commander? I must find him, now."

Dólion knew that particular look on his lord's face well enough not to waste even a single second before replying.  
"No, my lord, I am sorry. Commander Meneldir and I have taken our men and are moving into and around the house now. We left the courtyard to Lord Elladan and the rest of the higher-ranking officers."

"Have you seen Elladan, then?" Elrohir spoke up, urgency tingeing his voice. "Or Lord Glorfindel?" Dólion shook his head, looking rather forlorn, and Elrohir snorted in disgust, something that only emphasised the fear and dread that were tearing at his self-control. "Valar, someone here must know _something_!"

Dólion shook his head again and opened his mouth to say something apologetic. He knew that Lord Elrohir wasn't truly angry at him, he was only scared and upset with the world in general, but that didn't make it any easier facing him in his wrath, of course. He (along with a large percentage of Rivendell's population) thought that, of the twins, Elrohir had inherited most of his mother's and grandparents' mannerisms and behaviour. He also thought that the younger twin wasn't even aware of it, but when Elrohir put his mind to it (and sometimes, like now, even when he did not), he could look frighteningly like Lord Celeborn.

"Someone maybe, my lord," he finally answered quietly, keeping his head lowered and his eyes fixed on the ground. There was actually no proof that that kind of _look _– directed at you by Lord Elrond or his family – actually could burn your eyes out, but he wasn't about to take the risk. He was rather attached to them, for one. "But not me."

Elrohir was whirling back around, quite clearly biting back a scathing retort in order to stalk off and look for his friend and brother himself, when another shout reached their ears. The voice who issued it sounded torn between relief, worry and fear, a combination Elrohir did not want to hear right now, in anybody's voice.

"My lord! My Lord Elrond!"

Another elf skidded to a halt next to them, two other warriors at his heels, and Elrond did his best not to think about the small group of warriors he had "borrowed" from Meneldir and who were still standing a few feet behind them. This was beginning to look a little bit like a farce, and if this elf, too, expressed his profound relief that he was still alive and looked at him in the same way a mother bear would look at her wayward cub, he just might lose his patience and would have to remember all those painful little manoeuvres Gil-galad had taught him and Elros when they had been so much younger.

The newcomer, however, looked decidedly disinclined to do so, something that first pleased and then alarmed the half-elf. It was Thalar, the only surviving commander of Captain Elvynd, and if the urgent, dreadful look on his face was anything to go by, he had very bad news indeed.

"My lord," Thalar ground out while he tried to catch his breath. He must have been running around for quite a while, Elrond noticed detachedly. "My lord," the commander tried again. "You must come with me at once! Lord Elladan sends me; it is about Prince Legolas."

"What is it?" Elrond asked immediately, taking a step forward and only just refraining from grabbing the younger elf's arm. "Where are they?"

"Over by the scaffold, my lord," Thalar answered readily, some of the fear in his eyes slowly fading away now that he had fulfilled his mission and had found his lord. Elrond felt how the dread in his own heart intensified; he wished that he could be that easily reassured. "Lord Elladan is with the prince now, but it looked bad, sir. _Very _bad," he stressed, quite unnecessarily. "He bade me find you and bring you to them as quickly as possible."

Even though Elladan wasn't quite as adept in the healing arts as his brother, Elrond would never have dreamed about questioning one of his prognoses. If both he and Elrohir said that a wound was bad, it was bad, it was as easy as that. Elrond's first instinct was to rush over to the scaffold he could see looming in the distance, but he remembered his position and responsibility just in time. He considered the son of Thranduil as something of a fifth child, but he had a duty to his men, a duty he could and would not put aside or neglect even for the young wood-elf.

Elrond took a deep breath and vaguely wondered when his life had been easier and more carefree. Probably not since the fall of the Havens of Sirion, he decided wearily.

He opened his eyes again and gave Thalar and the other two elves that were standing left and right of him a quick look.  
"Have the healers been brought in?"

Thalar looked at Dólion for support, but the dark-haired commander merely bowed his head and kept it bowed, apparently more than unwilling to incur the wrath of one of his lords yet again.  
"I have no idea, my lord," Thalar finally answered. "I haven't seen them in this part of the courtyard, at least."

"Nor I in the parts further away, on the other side of the house," Dólion supported his colleague's words, only to add as a kind of insurance when he saw Elrohir's displeased look, "My lords."

"Very well," Elrond nodded, brushing their words aside, "that is a no, then. You two," he nodded at the two warriors Thalar had brought, "go and find them. Bring them here as quickly as possible, and tell them to bring what supplies they have." He gave the courtyard a blank look. "We will need all the help we can get."

The two elves bowed their heads and turned on their heels, disappearing into the opposite direction, and Elrond turned back to Thalar, already beginning to walk over to the scaffold.  
"Show me where my son and the prince are, Commander."

He was already several feet away when Thalar started moving, something that neither annoyed nor surprised the younger elf. Lord Elrond was known for being able to move both outrageously quickly and stealthily when he wanted to. He gave Dólion a quick nod who was already giving orders to Meneldir's warriors to come with him and resume their duty and ran after his lord and his son, only to be stopped by aforementioned son before he had even reached Lord Elrond's side. A hard, steely hand closed around his arm in the manner of a metal vice, and Thalar had no choice but to hurry alongside the twin or have his arm wrenched right out of its socket.

"My brother, Thalar," Elrohir began, his face too expressionless and his voice too calm for it to be true in either case. "My brother," he tried again, not even noticing that he was repeating himself, "he is well, I assume? No bleeding wounds, broken bones, missing limbs or anything of the like?"

Knowing that to show his amusement would be a bad idea, Thalar swallowed back his smile and nodded at the slightly older elf.  
"No, my lord," he answered unhesitatingly. "None of the above, at least not as far as I know. Definitely no broken bones or missing limbs."

"That reassures me far less than one might think," Elrohir grumbled and quickened his steps once again to catch up with his father who had left the stage of hurrying far behind and was more or less running by now. Some of the tension that seemed to have clung to his lithe frame seemed to fall away, though, and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "He is good at hiding such things, is my brother."

"That he is, my lord," Thalar admitted readily, but refrained from pointing out that Elrohir himself was hardly any different. "The only thing that was truly out of the ordinary was that there was a … well, a bat following us. I _think _it was following us at least; it might have been doing something else."

Elrohir almost stopped and directed a look full of incredulous surprise at him.  
"A bat?"

"Yes, my lord," Thalar nodded. "About this big." He held out his hands to indicate the size of the animal. Elrohir looked at him as if he was talking in some strange language that no sane being had any business of knowing. Thalar added, probably to emphasise his point, "Black. With wings."

Now Elrohir was looking at him as if he had lost his mind.  
"With wings," he repeated, deadpan.

"Yes," the other elf nodded, completely even-faced. "Two of them." Elrohir shot him a look that was somewhere between amusement and mild fright, as if he was expecting the commander to jump up and down maniacally any second now. Thalar, realising that this conversation wasn't really going according to plan, tried to get back on track. "So, nothing truly exceptional, if you disregard the little anomaly of the battle itself. Lord Elladan looked just fine the last time I saw him, and he was far more worried about you and the prince than anything else, if I may say so."

"He would be," Elrohir nodded. The words 'the idiot' were left unspoken, and yet so loud that they were almost deafening.

He was about to say more, most likely something like complaints about his twin's reckless behaviour, but whatever had been on the tip of his tongue disappeared from his mind in an instant when his father abandoned all attempts at dignity and proper behaviour and started to run. Elrohir cursed under his breath, the ferocity of the words shocking even Thalar who had heard quite a lot in his long years, and broke into a run as well, following his father and making his way around the scaffold.

The warriors that were standing in a semicircle around someone who was kneeling on the ground parted when they saw their lord running towards them, and Thalar couldn't blame them. He, too, would have stepped aside if Lord Elrond ran towards him with blood covering his clothes and his hair askew and flying about his head. Elrohir didn't even waste a single thought on that, all his thoughts fixed on how much he was _not _surprised that that person on the ground was his wayward twin brother.

Elrond dropped to his knees next to his son, taking in the situation at a glance. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed in a manner that most elves present were very familiar with, even while Elrohir knelt down next to him. He gave Elladan the most cursory glance before he fixed his attention on the still body of the fair-haired prince lying in front of him, and he reached out and placed the fingers of one hand on Legolas' throat. It took him some moments to feel the pulse there, and it was so weak and thready that he felt his hand grow cold.

"It is all right, Elladan," he told his son who had yet to acknowledge his presence and who was staring rigidly at his wounded friend's face. "It is all right, I am here. How long has he been like this, _ion nín_?" He looked at his son, at his hands that were firmly pressed against the wood-elf's middle and the blank look in his eyes, and added sharply, "Elladan!"

The twin was still not answering and did in fact look as if he had not even noticed that someone – and his father at that – was talking to him. Elrohir, who was kneeling opposite him and had to restrain himself from reaching out and hugging his brother right here and now, noticed how pale he was, and how badly his hands were shaking. It was clear that Elladan was too concentrated on not allowing Legolas to slip away that he had no strength or energy left to take notice of his surroundings.

"Ten minutes at the least, my lord. Fifteen perhaps, but no more than twenty."

It was Isál who answered in the end, his voice strained and nervous. Elrohir turned towards him, and it was quite self-evident why – except for the obvious reasons, of course: The captain was all but keeping a silver-haired elf upright who was staring fixedly at Legolas' motionless body, looking at least as removed from what was going on around him as Elladan. Elrohir took a second to thank the Valar for keeping at least one of his friends safe and turned back to his father, not even surprised for a second that Celylith was here in the first place. If there was even the remotest chance that Legolas might be in some sort of danger, you needed chains and/or a lot of ropes to keep Celylith away.

"Father?" the younger twin asked urgently. "What shall I do?"

Elrond seemed to be snapped out of some sort of trance, and needed only a moment or two decide on the right course of action.

"Find me supplies," he told Thalar who was standing a few feet away from them. "Athelas, any other kind of herb that might be useful, water, blankets, and bandages. As many as you can, and quick." The commander inclined his head and pushed his way through the warriors that were surrounding him, and Elrond turned his attention to Elrohir. "Get your brother away from here, please. He cannot support him any longer without taking serious harm himself. I will care for Legolas as best as I am able."

Elrohir didn't have to be told twice, and in a second he was at his brother's side and was pulling him gently away from the prone body of their friend and to his feet. For a moment, it looked as if Elladan wanted to fight him, wanted to fight against the hands that removed him from Legolas' side, but Elrohir was not to be deterred and finally dragged him away, murmuring soothingly to his brother.

"It is all right, _gwanur_. _Ada _is here; he has him. Legolas will be fine, you can let go, everything will be well…"

Whether Elladan understood his words or whether he merely recognised his twin's voice, Elrohir didn't know, but from one moment to the next some sort of recognition came into the eyes of his swaying brother and he found himself enveloped in a firm hug that would have put a good-sized bear to shame.

"Elrohir!" Elladan breathed into his younger brother's shoulder, his arms tightening around Elrohir's middle. "Eru Ilúvatar be praised! I couldn't find you; I tried, I swear I did, but you were nowhere to be found…"

Even despite everything that had happened, Elrohir returned the embrace, a happy, relieved smile spreading on his face. He had missed his twin desperately those past days, and had been horribly worried about him since the battle had started. To see him alive and relatively well was all the compensation he could have wished for.

"I am fine," he told his older brother while he was gently disentangling himself from his embrace. "I am just fine, Elladan, I promise. I just decided to have a little look around once all this started. I did not mean to worry you. Nothing happened to me."

Elladan snorted softly, just like he always did when he claimed to be all right, but the glazed, absent look in his eyes was still there. It was beginning to worry Elrohir, and so the younger twin looked his brother over more closely, and promptly felt how his heart skipped a beat and a cold shiver ran down his spine.

"Elladan! You are bleeding!"

The older twin looked at his brother dazedly, as if he had just spoken the words in Dwarvish. A frown creased his blood-smeared forehead as he gazed at his twin in confusion.  
"I am?" He looked down at himself, and the confusion turned into detached wonder when he saw the large, dark, slowly spreading stain on his left side that was hard to see on his dark clothing. "I am!"

He faltered suddenly, as if the recognition of the wound had made it more real and its effects more serious, and Elrohir jumped forward to steady him, waving aside the warriors that had stepped forward to offer their assistance.  
"Just how much have you given him?" he asked, suspicion, dread, fear and general unhappiness tingeing his words.

Elladan's body seemed to sag against him, and Elrohir felt more than saw him shrug.  
"As much as … was needed."

The older twin's body started to collapse as the gravity of his wound and the exhausting effects of his healing efforts caught up with him, but Elrohir was already there to lower him to the ground as carefully as he could, his face white with barely suppressed fear.  
"No, you idiot," he told his brother rather plainly. "Too much!"

Elladan was white-faced himself, his dark eyebrows and hair and even his eyelashes seemingly contrasting sharply against the paleness of his skin. Elrohir shot his father a quick, almost panicky look, realised that the older elf had both his hands full with Legolas and returned his attention to his twin just as quickly. It was hard to actually get a look at the wound, because his dear twin insisted on trying to get back up, but it look more like a – admittedly deep – slash than a stab wound. Elrohir released a small sigh of relief. He didn't think he could have handled another stab wound now, especially not if someone he loved suffered from it.

"When did this happen?" he asked sharply, fear making his voice harsh. Elladan was either not hearing him or ignoring him, and so he repeated the question, looking up at the other elves around him in a manner that very clearly stated that he considered his brother's injury to be at least partly their fault. "When? And how?"

"I … I do not know, my lord," Isál finally answered, apparently having decided that, as the only captain present here, it was his duty to face his young lord's wrath. If Elrohir had been in a slightly less preoccupied state of mind, he would probably have agreed that it was a display of impressive bravery. "It must have happened when we were breaking through their lines. He was uninjured before that, I am sure about it, and we were so intent on reaching Prince Legolas' side that none of us noticed it."

Elrohir looked at him in a manner that made the captain heartily glad that looks could in fact not kill and turned back to his brother, his eyes narrowing in a manner that even the most objective observer would have called threatening. He was just shrugging out of his cloak to when someone knelt down next to him, and when Elrohir turned towards the newcomer, he saw to his substantial surprise that it was Celylith. The wood-elf was still as white as a sheet, his fair, silver hair somehow only adding to this impression and making him look even paler. Behind him, Isál was hovering above them, shooting the two of them worried glances as if he was expecting Celylith to rush off and try to reach Legolas' side and get in the way.

Celylith gave Elrohir a blank look, as if he didn't really understand what he was doing here, but neither did he ask. He seemed to have regained some control over his emotions, however, and simply accepted the younger twin's presence as a given, which, in addition to the way in which he pointedly did not look into Legolas' direction, was more than enough proof about how horrible he really felt.

"Help Lord Elrond, Elrohir," he told the twin softly, his eyes quickly fixing on Elladan's pale face. He reached out with a blood-covered hand and brushed a strand of dark hair out of the older twin's eyes before he firmly took the cloak Elrohir had shrugged out of. "I will look after him."

"But…" Elrohir began, wondering, somewhat disgruntled, just who had died and made the wood-elf his superior.

"Please, Elrohir," Celylith simply said, turning his head and looking at the twin with large, pleading dark-blue eyes. "Lord Elrond needs your help. I can take care of him; my mother taught me enough to be able to deal with a cut to the side, no matter how deep it is." The dark-haired elf didn't move for a long moment, and Celylith tried again. "I swear by Elbereth's stars that I will look after your brother. I beg you, _mellon nín_. Help my prince."

Elrohir found himself nodding before he had even consciously decided to comply with his friend's wishes. His very being protested against leaving his brother's side, but rationally he knew that Celylith was right. Elladan's wound was bad, yes, but it was hardly life-threatening. His twin was too stubborn and proud to succumb to something as stupid as a wound some clumsy human had struck. What was complicating the whole thing, however, was the fact that Elladan was exhausted to the bone. With a fresh wound, it had been foolish of him to pour so much energy into someone else, but even while he wanted to scold his brother for it, he knew that he would have done exactly the same.

Elrohir took a deep breath, briefly placed his palm against the side of his brother's face and got to his feet. Celylith was right. The silver-haired elf knew enough to help Elladan, and his father did need his help. Legolas needed his help. It took him only a moment to reach his father's side, but when he knelt down next to him, he realised that he had come just in time. His father had grasped one of the fair-haired prince's white hands, his eyes fixed intently on his slack, unconscious face, while his other hand was pressing against the still slowly bleeding wound in his stomach, trying to staunch the blood flow. Without a word, Elrohir took one of the ragged, obviously makeshift bandages one of the warriors must have produced and pressed them on top of the others that were already saturated with blood. With both his hands applying pressure as firmly as he dared, he concentrated hard and tried to send his friend all the healing energy he could find in himself.

Elrond didn't even seem to notice his presence; he seemed to have noticed nothing that had been going on around him these past minutes, in fact, and only when a small commotion made everybody's heads whip around, he, too, stirred slightly and reluctantly resurfaced from the trance-like state he had sunken into. Upon seeing who had just arrived, Elrohir breathed a sigh of relief – at first. There was a small group of elves entering the courtyard, escorted by a dozen warriors. The twin quickly recognised them as healers, and couldn't help but grin openly when he saw them quickly spread out and begin to shout orders to the uninjured warriors. His grin grew even wider when he saw three of them head over to their little group, a warrior following them who resembled more a mule than an elf, so laden was he with bags and satchels.

The other thing that happened almost simultaneously was that Glorfindel chose this moment to make an appearance. The golden-haired elf lord was suddenly there, having appeared around the corner of one of the storage buildings to their left, and Elrohir's first reaction was immediate and profound relief. He had been worried about his former teacher, almost as worried as he had been about Elladan, and to see him on his feet and generally uninjured was a welcome thing indeed.

The golden-haired elf was rather pale, but otherwise he seemed fine, even if a little blood-spattered. In comparison to the majority of the elven warriors, however, who looked as if they had slaughtered half of this town, he looked positively clean. There was something decidedly dark about him though, some sort of savage instinct that had had been sated, and it was enough to send an instinctive, cold shiver down Elrohir's back. A moment later, when his subconsciousness had put two and two together, the shiver was replaced by a warm and almost embarrassingly satisfied feeling.

Gasur was dead then, and not a moment too early. If he had ever met somebody who deserved death as richly as that man, he certainly couldn't remember it.

All kinds of warm, satisfied feelings disappeared in an instant when Glorfindel came closer, and Elrohir saw that the elf lord was actually hurrying. No, he wasn't hurrying, Elrohir corrected himself absent-mindedly, his hands still exerting steady pressure on Legolas' midsection. Glorfindel was all but running, something that was very nearly unheard-of. Elf lords did not run, after all, especially not in public and with such an openly concerned expression on their faces.

The healers reached them first, but Glorfindel wasn't far behind. One of the three, a master healer whom Elrohir recognised, immediately joined him and his father, while the other two began to examine the motionless bodies of Ferdhôl and his men. The part of Elrohir that was glad about the aid – and, most importantly, the supplies the healers brought with them – was quickly silenced by the part that started panicking, for it was then that Glorfindel reached them, stopping in front of them and scanning the scene with darkened blue eyes.

Smouldering fury came into his eyes when he looked upon the motionless prince, and he uttered a curse that would probably have made even Sauron blush.  
"Damn that accursed snake!" he added a moment later through gritted teeth. "For once in his life he was speaking the truth, and it had to be about this one thing?"

That seemed to tear Elrond out of his trance at least temporarily, and he looked up, already noticeably whiter and harried-looking.  
"What?"

"Nothing," Glorfindel hurried to say. He gave Legolas' form another quick look, swallowed quickly and apparently refrained from asking the obvious question of how the young prince was faring. Anybody with one working eye in his head could see that. "I found Erestor, my lord. He needs your help, urgently."

That definitely caught the half-elf's attention, and his head came up with a start.  
"He lives?"

"For the moment," Glorfindel retorted, the three words telling more about the advisor's condition than a long monologue could have. "You have to help him, my lord. Two of the healers were with him when I left him, but he is close to fading. He needs _you_, Elrond. Please, my friend, you have to come with me. He is in the cellars."

Elrond only looked at him, a helpless look in his eyes that Elrohir could understand only too well. He knew how highly his father valued Erestor's friendship, and knew how much he would want to come to his friend's aid. To comply with Glorfindel's wishes would mean to leave Legolas, however, and anybody with a shred of training in the healing arts could see just what consequences that would have.

The half-elf closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, they were blank and empty and so full of worry and regret that Elrohir would have hugged his father if he'd had a hand free. It reminded the twin of something, something horrible he had pushed to the side in the chaos of the moment, and all of the sudden the sounds around him faded into silence as he struggled to remember what it had been.

"I cannot," Elrond finally said softly in an expressionless tone of voice. "If I leave the prince's side, he will die."

"And if you do not, Erestor will," Glorfindel retorted, his voice just as expressionless. There was no anger in his voice, however, for he understood the choice his lord had to make, but an incredible, anguished weariness could be heard, like that of a man who comes to realise that all his efforts have been in vain after all.

"Perhaps," Elrond nodded, his face so still that it might as well have been carved out of stone. It was the mask Glorfindel had seen him wear many times, when the elf Elrond was helpless and did not know what to do and the lord took over. "And perhaps not. Go and bring him up here, along with anybody else you might find there. If the healers have done their duty well, as they must have, they will have stabilised him, and he still has a chance. The prince, on the other side," he added, giving Legolas' white face a long look, "would have none."

For a long moment, the blond elf didn't say anything. Then he took a step forward and crouched down next to his lord and friend, an unreadable expression in his eyes.  
"You know what you are doing."

It was a statement and not a question, spoken so softly that even Elrohir who was no more than a foot away could hardly hear it, and Elrond smiled bitterly as he met his best friend's eyes. His own had assumed the colour of darkened storm clouds, full of pain and worry and regret and helplessness, and Elrohir couldn't bear looking at them longer than he had to.

"Yes," Elrond finally answered softly, his eyes not leaving Glorfindel's. "Valar, but yes, I do."

Glorfindel merely looked back at his lord and friend, his face still completely emotionless. The only reaction that was to be seen was the slight tightening of his mouth and a new steeliness that crept into his eyes, and a moment later he inclined his head fractionally and got to his feet in a smooth, effortless motion.  
"As you command, my lord."

He turned around and walked away, nodding at a few of the warriors as he passed them. The elves looked uncomfortable but obeyed, sure that they had missed something, that more had been said than could have been heard. Elrohir, however, who was still not paying his surroundings all the attention they were due, knew perfectly well what had been said. And how could he not, he asked himself, automatically assisting his father and the other healer when they applied yet another layer of bandages and began gathering various herbs and powders to mix a potion. It had been said loudly enough for him, after all.

Glorfindel knew that Elrond's decision was, rationally speaking, the right one, and he did not begrudge him it. His father knew, rationally speaking, that there had been nothing he could have done differently and that he couldn't be in two places at once, no matter how much he might wish it. They both knew, rationally speaking, that they were not responsible for anything that had happened here, and that no one – including Legolas and Erestor – would even think about blaming them.

Rationality, however, had precious little hold on anybody in situations like this. Elrohir did not know just what repercussions it would have if Erestor died because he didn't receive the help he needed when he needed it, or if Legolas died despite of all their best efforts. All he knew was that they would be grave indeed, and that he did not want to find out.

Later, Elrohir would be able to remember with astounding clarity what he had been doing in the exact moment he remembered what had been gnawing at the back of his mind, what he had pushed there for lack of hope and options and time. One moment, he was helping the master healer wrapping the new bandages around Legolas' middle and watching his father crush some athelas leaves, and in the next the world came crashing down on his head with a noise that would have deafened anybody.

He froze in mid-motion, heedless of his surroundings, and for a moment nothing mattered but the wild, panicky beating of his heart and the sickness that threatened to choke him. _Elbereth's stars above, he had left his little brother in a doomed town!_

"…rohir? Elrohir! Answer me! What is that matter? Are you all right? Eru, answer me, _ion nín_!"

Elrohir couldn't even formulate a single, coherent thought for several long moments, and only when a hand touched him and shook him out of his paralysis he looked up, straight into his father's worried eyes.

"What is it, Elrohir?" Elrond repeated, feeling how a cold had of dread reached inside his chest and began to wrap its fingers around his heart. "Are you wounded as well?"

Elrohir didn't answer. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost, and was as white and motionless as the young prince whose life they were still trying to save. The half-elf looked down upon the still figure of Thranduil's son. It wasn't that it was the stillness itself that was disturbing. Legolas was an adult who had grown up in the court of an elven king. He had been through enough diplomatic talks, dinners and functions to have perfected the art of being able to remain in dignified motionlessness for long periods of time, and he himself had seen him thus more than a few times. But even during these times, the blond elf was never completely still, even if he was not moving a muscle. There was an energetic air about him that was impossible to contain, no matter what he was doing or even not doing, in this case. To see him so utterly still and expressionless was just _wrong_, in the worst way imaginable.

A strangled, inarticulate sound finally found its way past Elrohir's lips, bringing Elrond out of his thoughts. The elf lord felt how his worry even increased. Elrohir, as a grandson of Lady Galadriel, was _never _speechless. It just didn't happen, and if it did, it couldn't be a good sign.

Before Elrond could ask again, a shout drew his attention, and he turned around as far as he dared, determined not to move Prince Legolas more than half an inch. Thalar was rushing their way, obviously sans healing supplies, but with an exceptionally worried expression adorning his face.

"My lord!" Captain Elvynd's commander exclaimed even while he was still several dozen yards away from them. He almost lost his footing as he very nearly stumbled over a wayward sword, deftly dodged a healer who was bandaging a wounded elf who was beginning to stir and ineffectively trying to ward off his help, and kept running. "My Lord Elrond!"

Elrond would almost have snapped at him that he was not deaf and would be willing to hear him out if he only uttered more than his name, but recognised the symptoms of overextending himself, exhaustion and worry just in time. He was still gripping the young prince's hand and was using that physical contact to pour what healing energies he could into the younger elf, and he was already feeling the effects of it. A pounding headache had taken up residence behind his forehead, and the vertigo that was growing ever stronger was seriously beginning to affect his balance.

Thalar finally reached them and skidded to a halt, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It was clear that he had been running for a while, and if the terrified expression on his face was anything to go by, the news he had was anything but good.

Elrond sighed silently, thoroughly tired of all this. He did not know how much more bad news he could take; the last one and the following sickening realisation that he would have to choose between Erestor and the son of Thranduil had almost been more than he could bear.

"My lord!" Thalar gasped again, apparently having regained control over his breathing. "I …" He faltered and took a deep breath, trying to pull more oxygen – and maybe courage – into his lungs. "I come from the sentries on the eastern wall. There … there…"

The commander paused again, unsure, something that awoke in Elrond the very uncharacteristic desire to strangle him. How the chestnut-haired elf had got to the walls while trying to find healing supplies was anyone's guess anyway, he thought testily.

"Something is happening with the Mitheithel. The sentries report that, some minutes ago, there was some sort of movement in the far distance, close to Aberon. Something like an unusual current that reached downstream all the way to here, stronger than any kind of normal current would be. Some of them think they heard unusual, roaring sounds, but they would not want to vouch for it. My lord, the warriors who told me this are stationed by the Bruinen. They know what they are talking about."

Thalar took another deep breath when Elrond merely stared at him incomprehensively.

"They – and I am in agreement with them – think that something must have happened to the dams of Aberon. They must have been at least several serious breaches to account for these happenings, if they aren't gone completely."

Elrond kept staring at the younger elf, understanding only slowly beginning to lay itself over his tired features. His face turned as white as a sheet as he realised what Thalar was saying and just what his words meant, and for a long, frightening moment the commander actually thought his lord might falter or faint.

Then, after several long moments, the Lord of Rivendell slowly turned his head to look at his younger twin son, a desperate gleam in his eyes, as if he was waiting for Elrohir to tell him that Thalar and the sentries were wrong and that nothing was wrong in Aberon, that nothing was wrong in the town where he had left his human son.

Even before his lord could lock eyes with his son, Thalar knew that no such assurance would be forthcoming. Elrohir's face was at least as white as his father's and there were gleaming, unshed tears in his eyes, and for the first time since the battle was over Thalar felt that they had lost after all. The terrible certainty in Elrohir's eyes was all one needed to see and all that needed to be said.

The Lady of Donrag, though already dead herself, had kept her promise.  
**  
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What he should have done, Tibron decided morbidly, was bring a boat. They should all have brought boats; even rafts might have done.

A moment later, he realised what he had been thinking, and shame and self-loathing crashed in on him, causing him to close his eyes lest he should fall. For a moment he was truly and honestly glad that his father had already passed into the next world. He was quite sure that he would not have been able to stand the shame his two sons had brought upon him and the entire family, one by his traitorous actions and the other by his callous thoughts.

Another moment later, common sense kicked in. He had always reacted with helpless humour in such situations, when he was faced with events that were too terrible to be taken seriously. Then, humour was the only thing that kept you safe and sane and able to function, and he had learned not to chastise himself for it. He meant not disrespect, and did only what he had to do in order not to break down weeping.

And weeping was just what seemed appropriate right now, the fair-haired man decided wearily and stopped for a moment out of sheer, simple exhaustion. If there had been anything close by to lean against, Tibron would have gladly used it to keep himself upright, but there simply wasn't anything left. There was nothing left of these parts of the docks but the skeletons of some storage buildings and one or two piers. Considering how many there had been no more than seven or eight hours ago, it was nothing short of a catastrophe.

Tibron sighed, feeling how the irrational, hysterical laughter once again began to rise inside of him. It was almost ridiculous indeed – who would ever have thought that something like _this _would happen if the dams were breached? Great Ones, if someone had suspected it, he would never have to suffer through all those long, boring, frustrating council sessions when they had discussed about who would have to pay for the latest repairs. He could still remember how pleased most of the other councilmen had been when Hurag, in a display of uncharacteristic generosity that should have made him suspicious even back then, had offered to pay for the upcoming repairs.

Toran's brother closed his eyes in helpless fury, both to block out the memory and the sight of his surroundings. Where there had been long, wooden docks, storage buildings and even housings districts, there was about nothing left. Only a few buildings had withstood the force of the water even partly, and the rest had been swept away partially or completely. Wreckage was everywhere just like the dark, viscous mud that had remained behind when the water had receded somewhat. Wooden beams that had once been part of houses and other constructions obstructed the road that was hardly visible anymore under all the debris, and kegs, barrels, crates, boxes and even pieces of furniture and various other things were everywhere, as if a giant had taken a house, turned it upside down and shaken it until everything fell out haphazardly. Most of the area was still flooded, even though one could move slowly and carefully since the water rarely reached higher than your waist.

The partial destruction of the docks wasn't the hardest part of the whole thing, however, something of which Tibron was only too keenly aware. The hardest part, so much harder even than seeing your hometown torn to pieces, was finding the bodies.

And the Gods knew that there were a lot. In this part of the city there were relatively few since few people lived so close to the docks, but still enough so that every two or three minutes someone would call out, indicating that he had found yet another far too still body. In three times out of four – at least that was the ratio Tibron clung to with all the rather remarkable stubbornness his family was known for – the call "Here!" was uttered in a way that left no doubts about the condition of the person that had just be found. It was rare that the healers' services were required, and even rarer that someone could be freed from wherever the water had trapped them and could leave their prison under their own strength.

Tibron knew that it was even worse in the other parts of the town where the dams had been breached. There, the dead numbered far more than here, and the rescuers had had to resort to using the town hall as a temporary morgue. He had been there for a while, just after it had happened, and what he had seen had been enough for at least a decade of nightmares. He himself had been nowhere close to one of the torn dams since he and his men had been busy subduing a group of Hurag's men in another part of the town, but no one could have missed the events. Aberon wasn't an overly large town, and the roaring sound of the water that must have been audible everywhere was something he doubted he would ever be able to forget.

One of the men that was accompanying him suddenly stopped, looking faintly puzzled, and crouched down next to a large wooden board that Tibron identified after a moments as a plank that must have part of one of the smaller boats that had been moored at the docks. For a moment, Tibron's exhausted, shock-numbed mind couldn't figure out why the other man had stopped, but then the other reached out with steady hands and pulled at the plank. It didn't come away easily, stuck as it was in between two large wooden beams, and only when Tibron lent his strength to the cause, it budged.

A moment later the two men managed to shift the large board to the side, and only now Tibron could see what the other man had already seen several moments ago: The flaming red, long hair of a young woman who was now revealed, her body half-buried under more beams. Her skin was pasty white, her red lashed resting on the pale cheeks, and her unquestionable beauty was already beginning to fade as the cold rigidity of death stole over her still features. For the life of him, Tibron couldn't figure out what this young one would have been doing down here so close to the docks, and wearily decided that it didn't matter. Whether the girl had been here with a friend or a lover or whether there had been some other reason for her presence, she had made the wrong decision in coming here. It had been a tragic mistake, a mistake she couldn't even have known she was committing.

He turned to his companion to say something along these lines when he noticed for the first time that the other man possessed the same red hair as the dead girl in front of them. The sadness in his heart even intensified, and he reached out and placed a hand on the other man's shoulder in a thoroughly useless comforting gesture.

"Who was she?" he asked softly, looking at the still, beautiful face of the girl.

"My cousin," the man retorted just as softly, stunned wonderment in his voice, as if he just couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing. He reached out and touched the girl's cheek with a slightly trembling hand. "My little cousin."

All words of comfort he could think of sounded platitudinous and insignificant, and so Tibron merely tightened his grip on the other man's shoulder.  
"Come," he told him. "Let the others take care of her."

"No," the man shook his head quickly and decisively. His wide, shocked eyes were fixed firmly on his dead cousin's face. "No. I … they don't know where she lives. Someone has to take her home."

There was nothing to be said to that, and besides, the other man wouldn't have moved anyway, about that Tibron was sure. Even when he had slowly climbed back to his feet and had unsuccessfully tried to brush dirt and mud and the stain of death off his clothes, the stunned man was still kneeling on the muddy ground. When he was turning around to make his way down the ruined road, the other man was reaching out and grasping one of the dead girl's hands, his fingers encircling hers tenderly. The picture was so utterly heartbreaking that all Tibron could do was turn around and start walking lest he start crying. If he started now, he would never be able to stop.

And what was even worse, what was maybe even the very worst part of it, was that he should be thankful that it wasn't worse. He should be thankful that the town was still standing; thankful that the dams had only burst in four places and that most of the districts hadn't been touched by the water. The part that had been affected the worst was this one, the docks; it had been almost completely destroyed.

He simply couldn't feel grateful for so much carnage and destruction, but yet he was. He _was _grateful that the city was still standing, he _was _grateful that they only found dead people every two minutes instead of every two seconds, he _was _grateful that most of the dams had held and he _was _oh-so-_very_-grateful that he, his son and his brother were still alive. At least his family was safe, and that was something for which he felt so profoundly grateful that he almost felt guilty in the face of so much death.

And yet that was why he was down here: Because not all his family was safe. He knew that Toran was all right; he had seen him when he and his men had still been in the town centre. His brother had been doing a laudable job at trying to organise the rescue efforts, and a part of him forgave Toran for his deeds. He had never meant for this to happen, about that he was very, very certain, and he was doing his best to make up for everything. But that was all there was, too: A small part forgave Toran, no more. He would never involve any strangers in this nor tell anybody else what his brother had done – because that was what he was, his brother – but _he _knew only too well how Toran had acted and whom he had unwittingly helped ruin their hometown and kill hundreds of people. He _would _protect Toran and defend him against any who would seek to discover just who had been among Hurag's supporters, even against the elf lord and that strange, frightening golden-haired elf that had been with him, but he doubted that he would ever fully forgive him.

So he had left Toran hip-deep in water in the centre and had come here, because it was here that Torel and the ranger had been seen last. Tibron clenched his teeth and grimly walked on, doing his best to keep a level head. It was amazing, he decided wryly, how, when the world came crashing down on you and all you could see was death no matter where you looked, you could still be frightened by something as finding yet another body. It should be just that after hours and hours of searching, he guessed: Just another body of somebody unfortunate enough to have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

But it wasn't just another body, and the blond man knew it perfectly well, too. He would be finding his nephew, the son of this brother who had only been doing what was right and honourable. Torel had refused to leave the side of one of his, Tibron's, guests, and for that he might have paid the ultimate price. Or if he didn't find him, he might find Strider, to whom he and the entire town owed their lives. He didn't know how the ranger had put the pieces together and realised just what would be happening or how he had even got out of bed, but he _had _done it and had risked his life for a town where he and his friends had been betrayed by some person or other over and over.

Tibron stopped for a moment, apparently to allow his companions to catch up with him, but truly because he felt so dizzy that he would have fallen flat on his face if he had taken another step. After the elf lord and his companions (including the scary blond one) had taken their leave, he had gathered as many people as he could on such short notice. If Giras hadn't already been in the town hall, he would have never managed it in time, but like this, they had done it, somehow. Overwhelming panic and horrible visions of what aforementioned fair-haired elf would do to them if they didn't manage to locate the elf lord's young ranger friend or adopted son or whatever he might be might also have helped.

This way, they had already split up into several groups and begun to search the shadier parts of the town when they stumbled over Vonar – common sense or the voice of experience had told him that they wouldn't find his son, his nephew and the ranger in plain sight in the main square. He had thought his heart would stop when two of his men came running up to him and all but dragged him down a road leading to the docks, and he had seen his son literally propped up against a wall with a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his middle. It had looked as if the only thing holding him upright was the wall at his back and the hand of another man that was grasping his shoulder, his face white and shocked and his eyes almost fever-bright.

It had become clear very quickly just what had shocked Vonar in such a manner. After he had told him just what Strider had discovered, how a group of Hurag's men had almost killed them and where the ranger and Torel were heading, he had taken a deep breath, had forced down the panic that had threatened to take a hold of him and had started issuing orders as quickly as his tongue cold formulate the words. He might not be a politician or a higher-ranking guild master, but he had owned an inn for the past twenty-odd years.

He knew how to tell people what to do, and so after less than five minutes a protesting Vonar had been sent home, accompanied by Giras who had received the very clear instructions not to allow the young man to set a single foot out of the house, for no reason at all. At the same time, a dozen groups had been ready to leave, with the orders of stopping the people sabotaging the dams by any means necessary. There had been many men who hadn't been armed, but provisional weapons were soon found in addition to even more men.

That it had worked so well was something that still astonished Tibron. It should all have ended in disaster, so panicky and ill-prepared had been their response, but somehow, it had worked. Perhaps it still all had, though, for even though most of the city survived relatively unscathed, there were still so many missing and so many already dead. And how could it not be a disaster when the people to whom they owed their hometown's narrow escape from certain doom had died while trying to make sure that just that doom did not come to pass?

Tibron was brought out of his thoughts when the last of his companions together with one of the healers passed him, and he blinked tiredly against the fear and pain and sorrow that threatened to choke him. The healer, an old man with long white hair and an even longer beard, looked even worse than he supposed he himself did, and Tibron could understand why. To be here in this alleyway of senseless death must be even worse for a healer, and the older man must feel even more useless than he did.

The fair-haired man cursed again, not even bothering to do it quietly since no one would care or even notice. Just why-oh-why did Strider and his nephew have to pick this part of the town to go missing? Of the group that had been sent here to stop Hurag's men – or of the mercenaries themselves – only a single man had turned up alive, namely at the other end of the city. The overwhelming majority of the people they found here was dead, having been killed almost as soon as the dam had burst, and the chance of actually finding not only one, but two people alive were as small as…

Tibron trailed off as he saw someone running towards him, and the dread that immediately filled him was soon justified when he saw that the man was one of the innkeepers' guild's messengers. It might actually have been the same one that the guild master had sent with instructions yesterday evening, but he was far too tired and exhausted to remember. Even before all this, he hadn't slept more than two or three hours a night for days while he had been busy concealing the elves' and the ranger's presence in his house. He wasn't twenty anymore, and he knew that, sooner rather than later, he would simply fall over when his body decided that enough was enough.

"Sir!" the messenger called out just before he stumbled over what had once been a large storage box and almost fell flat on his face. He righted himself quickly enough, eyed the submerged road once again with distaste but then quickly hurried on. "Sir! Master Tibron!"

The innkeepers' guild was a good deal less formal than for example the traders' guild – and Tibron wasn't actually important enough to merit this kind of public reverence – and so Tibron was actually quite surprised for a moment. Then he remembered that yes, that was his name, and that he'd better answer before the other man took a piece of wood and started poking him to elicit a reaction.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice so hoarse that he could barely recognise it. It sounded like the voice of a far older man, which was rather fitting for he right now felt like a ninety-year-old. "What?" He stopped for a moment and stared at the messenger suspiciously, recent experience having taught him that things always got worse once they'd started out like this. "Is there another breach?"

"No, sir," the man panted. He looked to the right and at the small, cleared area where they were bringing the dead, and as soon as his eyes came to rest on the long line of still bodies, he hurriedly looked away. "The two closest to the centre are more or less under control. They were a lot smaller than the other one; that one is still bad, sir, but the area is mostly evacuated now. I brought some additional workers with me, to strengthen the teams here."

Tibron nodded automatically, wearily deciding that that was at least a bit of good news. They needed every available man to try to contain the breaches as quickly as possible, especially this one before it could widen even more and take this entire part of the harbour with it. Even ten or twenty more men would be very welcome indeed.

"Then what is it?" he asked impatiently. He had lost all sorts of longanimity about a lifetime ago, or possibly when Vonar had brought the ranger and his blond friend into his house.

"It's worse, sir," the man replied, looking at Tibron with wide eyes. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow incredulously, and so the messenger went on, obviously to emphasise his point, "Far worse. The elves are back, sir. They arrived half an hour ago."

"What!" Tibron asked, the second eyebrow moving upwards to join the first. "The elf lord is here, in the town?"

"Well, no," the messenger clarified. "They're not all back. It appears that about two-thirds, including their lord, stayed in Donrag. Only a part of them is here to offer their assistance and help search for the ranger, as they say." The man swallowed heavily. "It's still a mighty lot of them, though."

"Who is leading them?" Tibron asked.

"One of their lord's sons, apparently," the messenger answered. "The same that was here earlier. His men are already helping search for survivors, and he would like to see you 'at your earliest convenience'."

Tibron felt how annoyance joined the swirling mass of emotions inside of him.  
"My son was wounded and almost killed today, I nearly drowned along with the rest of the town, I have dug out more dead people than I can count, my nephew is still missing, and the council wants – no, _expects_, me to deal with the elves as well?"

"Well," the other man began and frowned, "Yes, I think so."

There was little Tibron could have said to that, and so he bit his lip and swallowed the retort that was on the tip of his tongue. It was quite possible that the messenger would forget it in all this chaos, but he might as well report it back to their superiors and then he would be in trouble.

"All right," he told the other man slowly. "I will talk to him. Lead the way."

The messenger nodded and began to walk back the way he had come. Tibron followed him as soon as he had informed his men of what had happened and where he was going, stumbling after him in a manner that he rarely displayed and that looked almost drunk. He was an innkeeper, after all, and no innkeeper lasted long unless he could hold his liquor.

"What news of Donrag, then?" he asked while they picked their way through the rubble.

A gleeful grin spread over the other man's face, making him look like a particularly muddy and rather deranged frog.

"The elves took care of them for us," he told him in a tone of voice that left no doubts about his feelings in that matter. "They tried to hold them off, idiots that they are, and have paid the price. The mansion is taken, and it doesn't look as if anyone is putting up a fight anymore. And," he added, satisfaction radiating off him in waves, "we don't have to worry about that witch anymore."

"Oh?" Tibron asked interestedly. "Then why is the elf lord staying there? He could have left someone else in charge of the warriors and come here."

The other man shrugged, apparently not very interested in this.  
"I think there were some matters detaining him. Too many wounded to take care of or something like this? You will have to ask his son, sir; I do not know."

Oh yes, Tibron thought bitterly, ask his son. The last time he had talked to aforementioned elf lord when the matter concerned his adopted brother, he had been slammed against a wall and had been almost choked – repeatedly. He had absolutely no desire to repeat the experience, and somehow he thought that the greeting of "Welcome to what is left of Aberon, my lord, I hope you had a pleasant day taking over Donrag? If you are looking for the ranger … well, he kind of got swept away. Either that, or he got buried by a building somewhere. Either way, he is probably dead. Can I offer you a cup of tea?" would not be received very well.

He needn't have worried about that, of course. They had only just made their way out of the disaster area that had once been the docks when another messenger all but crashed into them, giving Tibron the distinct impression that someone had elevated him in rank and had forgotten to tell him about it. Perhaps he had been made guild master and no one had seen it fit to inform him about it? The thought pleased him immensely for a moment, but then he remembered that one of the current guild masters would have to be dead for that and his amusement vanished.

It wasn't an official messenger this time and something far worse than even the return of the elves. The man who had been looking for him for at least an hour (at least judging by his muddy and wet appearance) was one of his brother's assistants, a young, overly eager man who was right now trying to grow a beard. Especially now that his face was stained with mud and dirt, the wispy strands of hair that were all there was to show for his efforts looked particularly hilarious.

"I must ask you to come with me, Master Tibron," the youth began, sending the other messenger a dark look that was returned just as darkly. Tibron would almost have closed his eyes; the entire situation was beginning to even increase his headache, which was not a good thing. If it went up another level, his head would surely explode. "Please, it is urgent."

"Did my brother send you?" the innkeeper asked, annoyed. He did not want to see Toran right now; he was still far too angry and hurt. He guessed that he would be able to face him without wanting to strangle him one day, but certainly not in the next few months or so.

"Not precisely," the young man admitted, lowering his eyes. "Please, sir, come with me."

He would divulge nothing more, and in the end Tibron gave in, far too exhausted mentally and physically to argue unless he really had to. He turned back to his guild's messenger (who was glowering darkly at the younger man) and told him to go on without him and to relay to Lord Elrohir that he would join him as quickly as he was able. The man looked at him as if he was committing high treason by not following instructions immediately and without question – something that only filled Tibron with a profound sense of indifference – and stalked off.

Tibron looked after him for a moment to make sure that he really left – guild personnel could be thoroughly sneaky and far too curious for their own good. Satisfied that he and his brother's aide were alone, he turned back to the young man, but he resolutely refused to say more and merely led him down one of the side roads that had been remote enough from the dam to escape relatively unscathed. Even here water stood more than knee-high on the street, and so walking became a slow and exhausting process.

It took them more than thrice the time as usual to reach one of the smaller plazas where Tibron hadn't been in months, if not years. There were only a handful of people here, mostly helpers who made their way from one site to the other, and the lifeless stillness of the square made Tibron shudder openly. The other man stopped for a moment to get his bearing and finally began to cross the plaza, heading for one of the streets to the left that went back down to the docks. Soundlessly swearing to himself that he would kill the younger man if he didn't offer some sort of explanation very soon, Tibron followed him.

They walked down the narrow street, seeing more and more people who were searching through the rubble that once again began to litter the streets. Soon, the first destroyed houses could be seen, telling them plainly that they were moving back in the area of the harbour. Only a few moments later, the docks appeared in the distance where this street had once ended, looking even more ghostly in the pale light of the early morning sun. He could see that they had moved downstream, even if not very far; perhaps a few hundred yards.

Tibron had just decided that he would do something horrible to his brother's aide should it turn out that he had only led him here in order to show him how well the other teams were progressing, when the younger man stopped, apparently without any reason. Tibron looked at the working men around him who didn't even seem to notice his presence and then at the messenger, forcibly clamping down on his impatience.

"Well?" he asked as calmly as he could.

The younger man didn't answer and only motioned at something to his right, and only then Tibron saw that what he had thought to be the space of a collapsed building (there were enough dilapidated stones and beams lying around to build several houses) was in reality a very narrow lane that had once been framed by tall buildings. It was sloping upwards and was therefore relatively dry and looked only very chaotic. A few of the buildings had collapsed – this part of the town was old, and in the case of more than one building the constructors had saved money wherever they could – but there were still enough left standing to plunge the narrow street into deep shadows.

For long moments, he could not see what could possibly be of interest here, his tired eyes refusing to co-operate and do something as strenuous as adjusting to the gloom. In the end, however, he saw what his brother's aide had meant and couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't seen it earlier: No more than ten yards away, a still figure was kneeling in the mud, the shallow water reaching the man's mid-thigh. Otherwise the street was empty; it was clear that the water had only reached this part of it. Even though the figure's back was turned and he was looking into the other direction, Tibron would have recognised the man anywhere.

Dread that was so strong and thick that he almost couldn't draw breath washed over him, and Tibron faltered and was momentarily unable to regain his equilibrium. Toran's aide reached out and grasped his shoulder in support, and the consoling way in which the other man's hand remained on his upper arm only served to heighten his anxiety.

He knew what he would find in that narrow street. He knew it as surely and certainly as if his brother's aide had whipped out a sign from behind his back and had started waving it around.

What is was that finally prompted him to step into the narrow street, he would probably never know. His brain was completely paralysed, if a brain could indeed be paralysed, and he was acting on an instinct that was older and more powerful than the strong urge to turn around, escape from this place and forget that he had ever been here: The instinct to help someone he loved, and no matter what Toran did or had done, he would always love him; nothing at all would ever be able to change that.

The muddy ground squelched softly while he walked over to the still figure kneeling in front of him, that was something he heard overly clearly in his shocked state of mind. In a few seconds he had reached the other man's side, by now completely used to being soaked to the skin and having to fight your way through water wherever you went. The sight that presented itself to him was enough to make him freeze on the spot, sudden coldness enveloping his body and soul and rendering him unable to move or think or even breathe.

His brother was kneeling next to a pile of driftwood – parts of a building, scaffold or something like that, a calm part of his mind noted. He was covered from head to toe in mud and dirt, much as himself, and had to be freezing, for he remained completely motionless in the shallow, ice-cold water. Toran wasn't even noticing it, of that Tibron was certain; all his brother's energy and concentration was focussed on the far too still, curly-haired body he was holding in his arms.

Tibron felt how his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees next to his older brother without even noticing the pain that went through his legs and knees when he hit the ground. All he could do was stare at the still, white face of his oldest nephew and the way his hands, usually so restless and full of life, hung limply at his sides, disappearing into the cold, muddy water.

A choked sound came over his lips without him realising it, a sound full of pain and grief and disbelief. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched Torel's damp, limp curls, shuddering when he felt the coldness that permeated his hands when his fingers touched the boy's scalp.

"Great Ones above, no…" he whispered. He closed his eyes wearily, as if he could block out reality like that. "Please, no!"

Toran didn't look at him, his wide, unseeing eyes fixed on his son's white, quiet face. He had seen far too much to be able to deceive himself and insist that this was not true and nothing but a bad dream, that his son would open his eyes every second now, would smile at him and tell him that he would be all right. Racked with grief as he was, Tibron still wished with all his heart that he would be, that his brother might find some small measure of deceiving comfort, even if only for a few moments.

"I did this." Toran's soft, but surprisingly calm voice brought him out of his own, grief-filled thoughts. "I did this. This is my fault. I killed him, I killed my own son…"

Tibron hadn't thought that the pain in his heart could even intensify, but it did, stabbing through his very core like the keenest lance. Memories of Torel laughing as a toddler or playing as a child flashed through his mind, and he felt how the tears he had been trying to hold back for so long began to fall.

Without doubt or hesitation, he wrapped his arms around his motionless brother and the still, cold form of his nephew. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing that had happened over the last few months, and all that was important was the menacing darkness that loomed on the horizon and threatened to envelop them whole.

"No!" he shook his head, not even noticing the tears that were streaming down his face. "No, it isn't your fault, Toran. Hurag did this. That spiteful little witch from Donrag did this, brother, her captains did this, not you."

He could have been talking to a rock. Toran didn't seem to hear him and only stared straight ahead, softly rocking back and forward, a gesture of such helpless that it made Tibron feel positively sick. His brother looked as if he was afraid that he might wake his son, even though that was the one thing that would never happen again.

"I should have confided in you," Toran retorted, his voice still sounding calm. "I should have confided in _him_. If I had told you about what was going on, if I had denounced Hurag publicly, this would never have happened. Nothing of it. He would never have had to keep secrets from me; he would have come to me before helping the ranger and the elves; he would never have come down here; the town would not have been touched…"

Tibron didn't know what to say, his own grief almost choking him. In the end he only tightened his hold on his brother, wishing fervently that he would find something to break through this far too calm façade that the older man had thrown up around himself.

"You did not mean for this to happen, brother," he told him. "You were doing what you had to do to protect him and the rest of your family. You were right earlier: What could you have done? We both know Hurag. He would have found a way to make you pay for refusing him."

"All I was doing was make sure that my son couldn't trust me enough to come to me before leaving on a mission that was clearly a suicidal one. It should be me lying here. It should have been me who stood up to Hurag." For the first time he took his eyes off his dead son's face and looked at his brother, and Tibron would almost have startled openly. His brother's eyes were blood-shot, even though he had clearly not cried, and he looked like man of a hundred years or more. "What do they say, that the road to the pits of hell is paved with good intentions?"

His younger brother shook his head wordlessly. He looked down at his nephew again, and a new wave of grief went through him that left him almost breathless.  
"He went with the ranger to protect him," he told his brother, forcing himself to articulate the words even despite the sorrow that threatened to choke him. "He did what he thought he had to do, what he thought was right. He would have rather died than leave a guest of my house alone and unprotected."

"And so he did!" Toran exclaimed, his voice finally breaking. "Gods! And so he did!"

He closed his eyes, looking as if he was trying to deny everything now, but it was too late. Reality would not be denied, no matter what he tried, and so he was left staring at the body of his son, his own body beginning to shake as the tears finally came. Tibron only tightened his grip on his brother and did not even try to hold back the sorrow and pain that filled him.

The rescue workers kept working around them as they slowly combed the area for any survivors, giving the two of them only the barest minimum of attention. For them, it was just another tragedy, another senseless death of someone far too young that was lost in far too many such fates that had befallen their city from one moment to the next.

Neither of the two brothers noticed them, however, as they cried for their son and nephew who had died because he had done what was right and honourable, and because he had refused to leave the side of a young, injured ranger whom he had barely known.  
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It wasn't even the twelfth hour yet (not even close to it, in fact!) and Ingvaer was already beginning to think that his limits would soon be reached.

It wasn't that he had never seen dead people before; he had, a lot of them, in fact. He was a warrior, after all, and as such he had seen his fair share of fallen warriors, be they human, elven or orcish. He'd also seen the cadavers of more wargs and wolves than he had ever wanted to, and had even once seen a dead troll.

Annorathil's nephew shook himself and tightened his grip on the long stick he had grasped in his right hand. What he could deal with – with a lot of problems and only with great reluctance – was the fact that warriors died. That was the way things were, and something that would most likely and very unfortunately never change. He could accept that elven and human warriors died – on orcs he wasted neither his thoughts nor his sympathy.

What he could not deal with, however, was _this_.

The young elf gritted his teeth, took up his stick and began to walk over the muddy, churned-up ground, no tracks that a mortal eye could ever have seen marking his passing. The broad, glistening band that was the Mitheithel was to his right, no more than fifteen feet away, looking suspiciously calm and innocent in the morning light. The thing that only served to infuriate Ingvaer more was that it was calm, too. Aberon's dams hadn't given in under the pressure of the water; there had been no slow build-up against old stones and weary wood that had led to an inevitable collapse.

Aberon's dams had been sabotaged; it was as plain and simple as that. Ingvaer liked to see himself as a scientist of some kind – probably a rather strange kind, he was willing to admit that himself – and if there was one thing he could not stand, it was the wilful destruction or damage of something as perfectly innocent as a dike in working order.

There was another thing he couldn't stand, of course: Stumbling over dead children or women or old men, people who had most decidedly not been involved in some sort of conflict and who had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time – people who had died because of some humans' greed and hatred. He had already found more than he or anybody else would have thought possible. They had underestimated the victims the burst dams would claim. He was trying to push the sadness and the anger aside, not think too much about the still bodies they found and was trying to distract himself by trying to figure out just how they would have got out of that mine if Lord Glorfindel and the others hadn't found them (right now he had decided that it probably _would _have worked if he had used that piece of string, had tied it to a rock, had thrown it up the ledge where the workers' equipment was stored but which they couldn't reach in their bound state and without a ladder, and had then kept trying until it got tangled in the tools, they had fallen down and he could have used them to cut through his bonds).

It wasn't working, not at all, and while he was slowly making his way downstream, he wished that Lord Glorfindel had sent more warriors with them to help the people of Aberon.

He knew that the golden-haired elf lord couldn't have done that, even if he had wanted to. And he doubted that he had wanted to; while he would never say that his superior was unfeeling or cold, he had never doubted for a second that he possessed the strongly vengeful streak of their ancestors. There were things Lord Glorfindel did not forgive easily – if at all – and injuring his friends or those he had sworn to protect was one of them. The elf lord would never refuse to aid Aberon, knowing that the direct fault for all this lay with Donrag, but he wouldn't go out of his way to help them, either.

This time, however, it hadn't even mattered. They had hardly had enough warriors to bring the mansion under control, and to send more warriors would have meant to invite disaster. They hadn't counted on having to conquer a human city, after all! There were too many injured elves to consider, too, and too many warriors who assisted the healers and aided their wounded comrades. If Lord Glorfindel had sent more, he would have put the life of every single elf in Donrag at risk.

Ingvaer stopped for a moment, giving his two elven companions and a group of humans whose names he didn't even know (nor had he cared to ask) the opportunity to catch up with him. They weren't the only search party outside the city walls; there were others, namely all the men the coordinators of the rescue efforts could spare. He could still remember Lord Glorfindel's face when he had, with Lord Elrohir and Captain Isál standing next to him, announced that a part of them would return to Aberon to help the humans. The golden-haired elf had looked as if he was doing something at least partly against his better judgement, and the two younger elves had hardly looked any different.

None of the warriors that had been selected for this task had protested; they all knew that Estel had almost certainly still been in Aberon when the dams had broken. And even though Lord Elrond's human son was a bothersome menace on the best of days … well, he was still _their _bothersome menace. In the past, more than one of Rivendell's warriors had quietly (or not so quietly) contemplated killing the ranger, his brothers and/or assorted friends in a most gruesome and painful way, but they would be damned if they allowed someone else to do their work for them.

It had been very clear, too, that the fair-haired elf lord had been holding himself together with an enormous amount of willpower, and his blue eyes had been dark and devoid of all emotions. Everybody knew how poorly Lord Erestor was doing and that not even Lord Elrond could say for certain whether he would recover or even survive, and that Lord Glorfindel wasn't ripping someone's arms off and beating someone else over the head with them was widely considered a miracle. Lord Elrond's seneschal seemed to have embraced the calm, unemotional role of the Captain of his lord's warriors, and while Lord Elrond was looking after the prince and his chief advisor (aided by enough healers to tend half the Gondorian army), he had thrown himself into organising the operations still going on in the mansion and everything else their situation entailed with a single-minded determination that worried more than one of his warriors.

Lord Elrohir, too, had looked like a bear with a sore paw, or rather a she-bear whose cub had a sore paw. The reason for that had not been too hard to detect: Lord Elladan had been injured during the fight, and any warrior who had served under the twins for longer than a year knew very well how one of the brothers reacted when the other was injured (and being injured meant also suffering from a sprained ankle). They also knew that the very last thing they should do was offer comfort, tell them that everything would be all right or, in general, look at them at all.

The consequence of all three things could be – and, more often than not, also _ was _– you suddenly staring at the coldest grey eyes you had ever seen in your life, eyes that very clearly stated that you were an imbecile idiot who could hardly be trusted to be able to tell what colour the sky was and who should therefore refrain from making comments about something as delicate as a wounded elf's condition. In general, the next thing you found yourself faced with after that was the bridge spanning the Bruinen, right before said twin threw you into the river.

Lord Elladan would be fine, however, or that was what the other warriors were saying. It had to be true, too; if the older twin had been in real danger, you would have needed at least half a dozen elves to remove his younger brother from his side. That was at least a bit of good news, Ingvaer decided. With Lord Erestor and Prince Legolas very seriously injured, Lord Elladan incapacitated, the worry for Estel's safety and about a thousand other things pressing down on him, the last thing Lord Elrond needed was his seneschal and younger twin son running around and randomly killing people on some sort of wild, vengeful killing spree.

The killing spree might still happen though, the young elf was very aware of that. Unless they could find the boy – alive – it was very possible that Lord Glorfindel and/or the twins decided that they had to rip off a few human heads in order to avenge their pupil and brother. The Men of Aberon had suffered horribly for their ignorance, their disinterest and their treacherous acts, all of them were willing to admit that, but if anything, anything at all had happened to Estel…

Ingvaer trailed off, not willing to entertain that thought. If anything at all had happened to Estel, there would be worse consequences than just the grief and the sorrow of his friends and family, that was something he knew instinctively. And he would do what he could to spare his lords said pain and grief.

The others had caught up with him by now, and Annorathil's nephew started moving again, alongside the riverbed. The banks of the Mitheithel were covered with debris, branches and other things that had no business of being here (the strangest thing he had seen until had been an empty birdcage) – and with bodies. Some of them were lying in plain sight, remaining where the waves of the river had thrown them, but a lot of them were half-buried under the debris that littered the banks. Ingvaer had quickly realised that and had cut himself a long stick; this way he could search the banks more quickly and from a bigger distance. There were some deaths that were messier than others, and drowning was definitely one of them.

A few steps ahead of him, a man found yet another body, and Ingvaer walked up to him to make sure that it was not the person he and his elven companion sought. As every single time when they found someone who possessed the same physical characteristics as Estel, his heart stopped for a moment until the body could be turned over and he could see the face. He had never truly noticed how many tall men there were with dark, shoulder-long hair.

Again, his heart skipped a beat when he stopped in front of this newest body, even though it took him only a moment to realise that this couldn't possibly be Lord Elrond's son. The man's hair had the right length (even though its colour was hard to determine, wet and dirty as it was), but he was not tall enough and too muscular. Even though the Rangers were, as a rule, slightly stronger than the average human, they never filled out as much as other men and remained more slender even after they had reached full maturity. Both were characteristics they owed to their elven heritage, along with their predominantly dark hair and grey eyes.

The men turned over the still body, and Ingvaer released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding when he looked into a face of a man who had to have been at least thirty-five or forty years old. The face had probably been swarthy once, before death had laid itself over the features, and he seemed as if he had looked in faint, perhaps malevolent amusement upon the world, at least judging by the wrinkles that could be seen in the angles of his face. Most importantly, it was a face he had never before seen in his life.

Ingvaer turned around to his elven companions and shook his head. Relief danced over their featured, too; no one wanted to tell Lord Elrohir that they had found his little brother – dead.

To the men who were accompanying them, however, the man was apparently very well known indeed. That he hadn't been very popular became clear as well, when one of the men who had turned the still body over took a quick step backward, an expression on his face that was somewhere between anger, shock and loathing, as if he had just found the proof for something that had been too unsavoury for him to believe before.

"Addric," one of his companions commented. That he was very pleased about finding this Addric dead was not to be contested. "All the hells, so Tibron was right."

"'Course he was," a third, older man commented. "You can say what you want about him, but he's no liar, that's for sure. Unlike," he added with a sly look at one of his companions, "that scheming brother of his."

The man next to him whirled around to look at him, limp blond-grey hair becoming even more unruly as he raked a hand through it in agitation. That he had to be a trader quickly became clear, too, when he directed a dark, cold look at the man who had criticised one of the masters of his guild.

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded to know. "Master Toran is _ not_ a liar!"

"Now that's enough!" The man who had identified the body stepped between the two of them. "Have you no sense of decency? No matter what happened these past days, Toran lost his oldest son today! Show a little respect, both of you!"

"Even if he's not," the older man shrugged carelessly, clearly not willing to back down, "then what about Hurag, hm? How many rotten eggs can one guild council have?"

The trader's face turned red and he planted his feet wide apart, clearly expecting this conversation to end in some sort of physical confrontation. Ingvaer, who was looking on from the sidelines in utter confusion, not having the slightest idea about what exactly the men were talking, had to admit that that was a distinct possibility.

"You take that back!"

Ingvaer shot him a puzzled look, silently asking himself just when exactly he had stumbled into a children's playground and why said children looked so much like grown men.

"Take back what everybody else thinks?" The other man was not prepared to be co-operative or assuasive. "Why? And you know what the best thing is?" He leaned closer to the the other man, his eyes narrowing in a way any patron of any bar who had seen his share of bar fights would have recognised. "You elected him to that position! And see where it led us, all of us! Straight into disaster! And to think that you traders wanted to have more influence, that you demanded more seats on the council!" He spat out, disgusted. "Laughable, that's what it is!"

"Why, you ignorant…"

"Gentlemen!" Ingvaer decided to end this before it could descend into a brawl. He wasn't so sure if he had used the correct term of address, but Lord Elrohir had told them to be diplomatic, so diplomatic he would be. "I am sure that you can resolve this later, when there will be a time and place for it. There could be someone still alive here!" He gave the men the sternest look he could manage and wasn't overly surprised when it didn't work overly well. He had never been very good at things like these; he was far happier figuring out the solution to one problem or other. "Now, what is going on here? Who was that man?"

"That's Addric," answered the man who had tried to mediate earlier. For a moment, Ingvaer seriously contemplated injuring and/or maiming him for repeating what he already knew, but then the human added, "He is … he was Hurag's man. The leader of his mercenaries, or whatever you want to call them."

"Ah." Ingvaer looked at the still, white-faced body in front of him with a lot more interest and a lot less sympathy, and only just resisted the urge to poke him with his stick. "I see."

In the background, the men resumed their bickering, but he wasn't listening. There was something gnawing at the back of his mind, but it took him a while to remember what it was. He had been there when Lord Elrohir had been waiting for Tibron, the innkeeper who had been in Rivendell and whom he seemed to trust. It had been a long wait, and all of them had begun to become impatient when a messenger had walked up to them, looking decidedly nervous and wary. The man's fear had been unfounded, though. They all felt for the innkeeper's loss, and Lord Elrond's son in particular had looked stricken by the news of Tibron's nephew's death.

And it was a tragedy, that much was sure. The boy had been so young – he could still remember his face only too well – and been trying so _hard_ to do the right thing… And that, Ingvaer decided sadly, had cost him his life. If the boy hadn't been so brave or so stubborn, if he hadn't insisted on helping them – on helping Estel – he would probably never have…

The dark-haired elf trailed off, suddenly remembering where he had heard Addric's name before. It had been when Lord Elrohir had questioned – rather forcefully, one might add – the one councilman he could have got his hands on. The old man hadn't looked all that happy – in fact, he had looked terrified – but he had quickly told the twin all he had wanted to know, or rather all Tibron had told the council: What the boys (Ingvaer simply couldn't call them men) had discovered, where they had – foolishly! – gone, the fight they had been involved in, and all they had been able to pierce together after that.

The fight … the place where the dams had broken… _'We have found none of our people who tried to stop Hurag's men, my lord, I am sorry, and only a few survivors of the mercenaries – two men from the group closest to the city centre and one from Addric's men, which is a miracle, considering how badly off the docks are…'_

Addric. Ingvaer snapped out of his thoughts and turned back to the men, who were now looking as if the only thing keeping them from exchanging blows was the elves' presence.

"When was he last seen?" he demanded to know. "This Addric, wasn't he the leader of the mercenaries that brought down the dam at the harbour?"

"Yes, I think so," answered the blond trader, taking his eyes off his adversary for a moment.

Ingvaer turned away from the man and locked eyes with the two elves who were standing behind the men, seeing the same realisation in their eyes he could feel in his own heart. This man had brought down the dams of the docks. He had been swept all the way down the river, all the way to here. Estel had been right in front of the dam when it had broken, or so they believed. Estel could have been swept down here as well

Without another word the three of them began moving, new urgency filling their hearts. _Estel could have been swept down here as well._ Ingvaer gripped the long stick in his hand more tightly, using it to help clear a way through the debris that littered the riverbanks. 'Please,' he prayed silently. 'Please, Ilúvatar, let us find him alive. Do not make me return to Lord Elrond or the twins with the news of his death, do not make me rob them of the hope they still have, please…'

For long minutes, it seemed as if his prayers would go unanswered. The three elves could move a lot fast than the humans, for their senses were far keener and they could navigated their way through the area a lot more surely, and so the men were quickly left behind. They found another row of bodies, some of them so mangled that Ingvaer felt profoundly glad that he hadn't found the time to eat anything for more than half a day, but the dark-haired elf stubbornly refused to give up the hope that they would find the young ranger alive. He knew the boy's abilities and stubbornness after all, and if there was anybody, anybody at all, who could survive something like this, it was Estel.

In the end, he would almost have missed it. He was slowly making his way over the newest patch of debris that the river's current had deposited here, cursing the undergrowth for making the search even harder, when his eyes spied something, half-hidden by the reed that grew thickly here and was obscuring his view. At first, he thought that it was nothing but another dark piece of wood, perhaps a larger one that had once been part of a house or some other sort of construction, but then the reed moved and the sun made her way through the long blades, illuminating the scene.

Ingvaer froze as if someone had taken a hold of his sleeve and jerked him to a stop. What he had first thought to be a log or a wooden beam was anything but; it was in fact the shape of a man who was lying half on the shore and half in the water, almost completely obscured by the reed and the debris that surrounded him on all sides. He was lying on his side, facing away from the elf, but even so Ingvaer could see that the hair was the right length, and apparently of the right colour, too. His body was half-hidden by the long blades of the swaying reed, but the elven warrior would have been able to swear that, even though he was wearing an unfamiliar coat, the clothing looked familiar, and that his build was right as well…

He was moving before he had even consciously decided to set one foot in front of the other. Falling heavily to his knees next to the still body, he turned the man over as quickly as his suddenly shaking hands would allow him. When the man's face became visible, Ingvaer groaned softly and closed his eyes against the pale, deathly whiteness of the skin and the tightly closed eyes. But through the mass of bruises and abrasions, he could clearly see a young man he had known for more than twenty years, and when his fingers felt for a pulse on the equally bruised throat, he found one. It was weak, thready and almost indetectable, but it was _there_.

_"Sí!"_ he called, not averting his eyes even for a minute. _"E nâ sí!"_

A mere moment later, the other two elf came to a halt next to him, their eyes wide and full of barely veiled hope. Ingvaer didn't take the time to comfort them in any way and merely looked up for a second, locking eyes with one of them.  
"Find Lord Elrohir and bring him here. Quickly!"

The elf nodded and turned around, and a moment later he was gone, running back the way they had come and not bothering to answer the questions the men shouted at him when he passed them. The second warrior slowly and gingerly went down on his knees next to Annorathil's nephew, uncertainty and dread radiating off him in waves as he looked at the still, broken form of the young man in front of him.

"Is he alive?"

The dark-haired elf didn't answer immediately and simply breathed out, half in incredulity and half in relief.  
"Yes, he is."

But only just, Ingvaer thought. Only by the thickness of the merest thread, but alive nonetheless.

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_ion nín - my son  
gwanur - (twin) brother  
ada - father (daddy)  
mellon nín - my friend  
Sí! E nâ sí! - Here! He is here!  
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So, everybody's been located. That's something, right? •ducks sharp objects• Jeez, you people can be very unreasonable sometimes... •g• Okay, so in the next chapter we'll see who is still awake and in what condition, a lot of people will have long conversations, and they should get back to Rivendell. If they can make it in one piece, that is. •g• Sorry again about Torel. I liked him, too. Okay, so I hope to see you in the next chapter. Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated. Thank you for the patience you've been showing lately, it has been greatly appreciated!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**Okay, so I am switching back to the good ol' group email response or whatever you want to call it. I used the FF-net system the last time, and even though it worked fine, I don't really like it. I can't really explain it either. And guess what? This time it's all actually on time! It's hard to believe, I know... •g•**

**Anyway, I would like to apologise to , CrazyAZNkid, Lilandriel and Jen for not including them in the review responses. For that, you have to leave me your email addresses or log in to review. I am sorry about that, but otherwise this doesn't work anymore.**

**Thank you for your understanding, and all your lovely reviews, of course!**


	38. Fearful of the Night

**Disclaimer:** For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N:**

**All right, I am officially giving up. I will never - ever! - get my characters to shut up! I was trying to write a nice little chapter to, you know, wrap up everything, and what happened? Everybody insists on having conversations that are at least 10 pages long! •takes deep breath• That little rant essentially means: Yes, there IS going to be another chapter. I couldn't fit all into this chapter, so this story is going to have 39 chapters. First I wasn't so happy about that, but now it has been pointed out to me that 39 is three times 13, so that's kind of fitting. •evil grin•**

**I am right now in the middle of my exams which will continue till the 22nd of June. I hope to be able to post the last chapter sometime not too long after that (please note the special emphasis on 'hope'), but I really can't promise anything. My flat is beginning to come apart at the seams, so to speak, with a lot of people moving out and even more people coming to visit me before I, too, leave, so it will be a busy month.**

**Anyway, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Here's the - officially - second-to-last chapter, yay! As most of you already suspected, it isn't exactly the happiest one, with lots of angst and H/C all around. There are lots of conversations, too: Elrond has one with Glorfindel, Glorfindel corners Erestor, Elrohir puts up with Legolas and Elrond tries to get through to Aragorn. How well that goes? Ah well, we'll see...**

**As always, have fun and review!**

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Chapter 38

Elrond was staring straight ahead, into the flame of one of the few candles that lit the room. The semi-darkness hung heavily over the small space, causing shadows to appear in the corners of the room and distorting the smaller shadows the candles cast onto the floorboards. Even despite of the darkness, though, one could see the lines that worry and exhaustion had left on the ageless features, and the blankness in the usually so bright grey eyes would go unnoticed by no one, either.

The half-elf finally blinked, but did not avert his eyes from the candle's small flame. Exhaustion was still pulsing through him in a steady, never-wavering beat, even though he had most unfairly and craftily been persuaded – or rather forced – to take some rest, namely by his sons and seneschal. Elrond would almost have smiled. He really did not know how Glorfindel did it, but he was the only elf on this side of the Sea with the possible exception of Círdan who could still make him feel like an insolent elfling. With only one glance, mind you.

And he had tried to rest, he really had to. He had even managed to sleep for a few hours, but after that he had simply woken up and had not been able to go back to sleep. Glorfindel would act as if he was doing it on purpose, as if he was depriving himself of sleep as some sort of punishment or something like that.

It was ridiculous, of course. Not that he wouldn't go that far – he was, after all, an honest enough elf to admit his faults – but he simply hadn't enough control over his body when he was this completely and utterly exhausted. Valar, he wouldn't be surprised if he dyed his hair red from one moment to the next, just because his body or brain decided that it was a good idea.

Elrond rubbed his tired eyes and leaned back in his armchair. This train of thought would get him nowhere, and would only serve to make everything even worse. He didn't really know how, but he was quite sure that it _could_ get worse.

One thing was clear, though: For Aragorn it _couldn't_ get worse any worse, at least not if he was to survive.

The half-elf buried his head in his hands, his long hair falling forward and framing his face. He once again began to feel that the walls were closing in on him, and the night's shadows that lay so deeply over the room were deepening and threatening to choke him. He purposefully did not look at the bed next to him, or rather at the person who occupied it. There was nothing new to see there, either, and yet something else that would only make him feel worse.

Aragorn should, by all means, be dead. His son should have drowned, or, before that, should have succumbed to the wounds he had suffered in Donrag and later during his fight against Hurag's men. He shouldn't have survived to be fished out of the river by Ingvaer and his men, and he certainly shouldn't have survive until Elrohir and he could reach his side.

That he had, however, had been nothing but a miracle. Elrond had thought his heart would stop when he had entered Tibron's house (which the man had, somewhat stunned, offered as their temporary headquarters) – or, as Glorfindel would put it a good deal less respectfully, had stormed into it – and had seen the solemn, dark expressions on the faces of the warriors who were standing in the entrance hall. Someone – he thought it had been Captain Isál, even though he wasn't really sure about it – had taken him by the arm and had led him to where Elrohir was desperately fighting for his little brother's life, and that had been the point when he had almost frozen in terror.

Estel should have died. The Valar alone knew how he had managed to hold onto life. He should have _died_, and that knowledge was enough to make him feel sick to his stomach. He wasn't exaggerating, not one bit. He did know that his human son's elven blood aided him now as it had aided him on countless other occasions, and that Númenóreans were generally more resilient than normal humans. But Elrond had treated more of his brother's people than he could count, and he knew the limits of their bodies well. Granted, Estel had more Númenórean blood than the majority of the Dúnedain living today, but that hardly meant that his body was vastly different. There were things a man did not survive, no matter who his ancestors were. Valar, there were things an elf did not survive!

The dark-haired elf closed his eyes against the memories of his adopted son's broken body lying utterly still and motionless on a bed, the paleness of his skin almost blending into the crisp, white sheets around him. He could not stop the litany of injuries that resounded in his head, and he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes as if he could block it out like this.

A broken right wrist that Elrohir had thankfully set expertly, plus several broken fingers that had apparently got in the way of that madmen Acalith had made her captain. Two dislocated shoulders that had hardly begun to heal, an old concussion and deep abrasions that covered most of the back. A long cut down the left arm almost to the elbow, enough bruises and abrasions for three men, a newly fractured shinbone…

Elrond heaved a heavy sigh but refused to open his eyes again. Estel's body might have been able to cope with all of the above – if it hadn't been for the river. There were things a mortal body didn't thank you for, and taking a prolonged bath in an ice-cold river was one of them. Ilúvatar alone knew how the young man had even managed to survive to somehow reach the shore, but now it had caught up with him. Elrond had seen enough patients with the symptoms he was seeing now to know that his youngest son had caught pneumonia – and a rather bad case at that – or an illness that cleverly disguised itself as such.

Aragorn had already been so weakened that it wouldn't even have needed an involuntary swim in the Mitheithel for him to catch an illness. When he had got to Aberon, the symptoms had already been fully developed, and already so serious that he had been frighteningly sure that he had arrived just in time to watch his son die.

He had not, however. While they had cleaned the wounds, set and splinted the broken bones and wrapped most of his body in bandages, Estel had clung to life with the single-minded tenacity that was both one of his most infuriating and endearing qualities. Never before had Elrond been so glad that the son of Arathorn had somehow inherited all of his twin brother's stubbornness; he knew only too well that it might be the only reason why the young ranger wasn't dead yet. Elros, too, hadn't even known how to back down from something.

Elrond sighed again. He knew that there was nothing else to do but wait. It had been two days since Donrag had fallen, two days since the dams of Aberon had burst and since Acalith had committed suicide. It had been one and a half days since Ingvaer had found his youngest son, barely alive. The men of Aberon were still busy getting their bearings, but the dams had been haphazardly repaired. The endangered areas had been evacuated and temporary quarters had been found for the affected people, mostly outside of the city walls. The dead had been located, as well as the few survivors there were. Elrond knew how floods worked, and had therefore not been shocked and only deeply saddened when Tibron had told him that almost eight out of ten people who had been caught in the raging waters had died. Of the people who had been close to the dams when they had broken, almost none had survived.

Even though the people of Aberon were still more than busy, they had agreed to send a group of men over to Donrag to relieve the elven warriors. Only a handful of their warriors still remained in fact, and that was more to keep an eye on things and make sure that the soldiers of Aberon didn't feel that they should give their feelings free reign and take their revenge for what had happened to their hometown. There was no lost love between the people of the two cities, and so the negotiations between the representatives of the towns were difficult at best and useless at worst. It seemed that they had agreed that a council should be established like in Aberon and that Acalith's highest-ranking officials and advisors should be handed over (it seemed that the men of Donrag had no qualms about sacrificing their late lady's helpers in order to buy their freedom), but it hadn't gone any farther than that.

Elrond didn't care. When it became clear that the men of Aberon could handle the situation, he had moved almost all the warriors to Aberon. It was true that they had been betrayed by the people of this city as well, but it had hardly been as bad as in Donrag. Besides, there were people he honestly trusted and liked, like Tibron, for example, while everybody he had seen in Donrag wouldn't hesitate to sell them out to whoever might be interested in paying a coin or two. There had been no elf that had been too badly wounded to withstand the short journey to Aberon, and so he had given Glorfindel (who had remained behind when he had raced to Aberon upon receiving Elrohir's message) the order to take his men and join him.

The golden-haired elf had done just that, doubtlessly hovering next to Erestor's stretcher all the time. Elrond knew that Glorfindel needed this, this visible proof that his friend was alive and would be well, and he did not begrudge him this chance at some peace of mind. He knew that he himself hardly would have had the right to be with his advisor, even if he had had the time and opportunity. He had made a choice, after all, and had chosen the son of Thranduil over one of his oldest friends. He was still convinced that he had made the right decision, but that didn't mean that he expected Erestor to share that opinion.

The fact that both Legolas and Erestor had survived changed little. Erestor had regained consciousness first, even before he had been moved to Aberon, and, with time and rest, he would be all right. Elrond had not been there when the councillor had woken up, but he had been informed that the first thing Erestor had said when faced with a broadly grinning Glorfindel upon awakening had been something along the lines of "I fail to see the humour in this situation, silly Vanya. Could I now please talk to a sane person?"

Erestor would be fine, or so he hoped. After he had been brought up from the cellars and they had somehow made sure that Prince Legolas wouldn't bleed to death right then and there, Elrond had left the wood-elf in the capable hands of his master healer and son and had looked Erestor over. Even while he was doing it, he realised that he owed the healers who had treated his friend until now a great debt. They had done an excellent job stabilising him, and so the wounds he had found had filled him more with anger than with dread. It had been enough anger to feel deep, probably unsuitable satisfaction at the knowledge that Glorfindel had killed the person responsible for this. It wasn't enough to quell the anger, but it was just enough to make it a little easier to bear.

Legolas, on the other hand, had remained unconscious a lot longer, and had in fact only woken up a few hours ago. Elrond grimaced slightly. "Woken up" just might be a euphemism – the younger elf had been awake for less than a minute, and had been in too much pain to be truly conscious of what was going on. He very much doubted that it had put anybody's mind truly at ease, even though they had all been expecting such a reaction. The prince's wounds had been more serious, and even despite the fact that Erestor had spent more than two weeks here, the younger elf's body had been more weakened. After all, Gasur had taken care not to kill Erestor outright or do anything that might cause him to slip away too quickly, while the wound he had inflicted on Legolas had been meant to kill him – in a slow, agonising fashion.

Anger bubbled to the surface again – curiously un-quelled, actually – and created a seething, tangled knot of rage inside of him, and this time Elrond looked up, at the still body of his adopted son. Aragorn looked young, fragile and … small, that was the word, and one that he would have found strangely unfitting no more than a few weeks ago. The ranger was tall, after all, as tall as most elves, and already broader and more muscular-looking than his brothers. He would never be as powerfully built as some of the human warriors with their bulging muscles, and would probably remain on the slender side for one of the Second People, but to call him thin or small was a crass exaggeration.

Now, however, he looked as if the bed he was lying in could swallow him up any second. Valar, considering their luck it probably would, too, and he would have to try and explain to his elven sons why their brother had been eaten by a living, apparently insane bed.

Even though the thought was outrageously absurd and caused him to smile against his will, he was unwilling to discard it outright. If there was anybody who could possibly manage to be eaten by a bed monster, it was Aragorn.

But then again, he added, his smile fading, the monster wouldn't even have to eat him in the condition he was in. It would most likely be enough if it looked at the young man the wrong way, or breathed into his general direction. That was, if bed monsters did breathe at all – if they were demons, they wouldn't have to, but then again…

"There is more of your mother's people in you than most people think, _mellon nín_," a soft voice commented next to his ear. "Just how did you get past Isál's men without being seen?"

Elrond actually jumped, completely startled by the sudden appearance of another person in the dimly-lit room, and only just stopped himself from grasping his breast with one hand, if not two. As he had already thought, he came face to face with Glorfindel, who had apparently entered the room, walked up to him and crouched down next to his chair without him hearing or seeing anything. Glorfindel was either a good deal stealthier than he had given him credit for, or he was a good deal more preoccupied. A quick look at the bed next to him and the still, pale form of its occupant answered that question immediately.

"I do not have to 'get past' anybody," Elrond informed his friend. There was the faintest smirk lurking in the eyes of the older elf, doubtlessly satisfaction at having surprised his usually so unshakable lord, but Glorfindel was too intelligent and knew Elrond too well to show it. "I am their lord. I can do almost anything I want, and they would not have the right to stop me."

"Oh?" Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. His keen eyes did not leave the younger elf's face, though, and Elrond once again felt the irrational urge to avoid his gaze lest his friend gauge all his feelings and fears. "That might even be true, but I asked all of them, and they steadfastly denied having seen you leave your room. How can this be, then?"

Under different circumstances, in a different time and place, Elrond would have smiled at that. Now, however, he only returned his gaze to the motionless form of his human son. He appreciated Glorfindel's attempts to take his mind off his worries, but he was in no mood to be cheered up, not even by his dearest friend. And besides, he did not feel that he had the right to keep the blond elf from Erestor's side for long; his advisor should have at least one person around him who hadn't chosen someone else's life over his.

"I may have waited for an opportune moment," the half-elf finally admitted. It was probably a rather un-elf-lordly admission, but he hadn't been raised to be a liar.

"That would explain it." Glorfindel nodded his head and sat back on his haunches. "Elrohir is with Elladan, much to his chagrin," he went on quietly. "I had thought that they would both be too relieved to see each other alive, but it seems that Elrohir took it personal this time." He shook his head slightly. "He is convinced that Elladan got wounded because of his own 'haughty stupidity', and is doing what he can to prove it."

"At least he has stopped haunting Isál and his men," Elrond joked weakly. "Yesterday I would have been willing to bet that the good captain was only one step away from hurting him. Very seriously, if I might add."

"And I wouldn't have blamed him." Glorfindel shook his head. "Elrohir can be relentless if he wants to be." Elrond was either not really listening or was too honest to protests, and so he shrugged and added, "I spoke with the healers a little while ago. Erestor is doing well, all things considered. The prince…" He hesitated for a moment, obviously searching for the right words. "The prince is getting better as well, apparently. They told me that they had to drug him again. He was getting restless when he was more aware, and they were afraid that he might rip his stitches or aggravate his wounds in some other way."

"That sounds like something a son of Thranduil would do," Elrond agreed wryly.

He turned serious immediately. The young prince was still not out of the woods, and before he had come here he had looked in on him himself. He was looking better now, but that didn't count for much if one considered how close to death he had been for a long time.

"Indeed." Glorfindel nodded his agreement. "Impetuous, the whole lot of them." He looked at his friend, apparently contemplating whether or not he should share this next bit of information with him, but in the end he settled for the truth. Elrond had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being lied to, and he was in no mood to be speared with one of his _looks_. "He was more or less delirious the last time I was with him. He … demanded to see Estel."

Elrond's face darkened.  
"Then it was the right decision to drug him. I wouldn't even have let him see him if the prince _wasn't_ delirious, not in the condition he's in at the moment. It's hard enough on the twins, and they are healers." Glorfindel merely inclined his head without saying anything. There _was_ nothing to say. Elrond looked down at his hands that were firmly clenched in his lap when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned and looked at his friend. "Is young Celylith still with him? I sent him to get some rest, but I doubt that he actually heeded my words."

"Oh, he would never disrespect you in such a way, you know that," Glorfindel told him. "He is respectful enough, that young one, even though I have the feeling that he is behaving quite a bit differently when he is alone with his prince." He grinned slightly at the younger elf. "He went, that's for sure. He came back after half an hour, though. It's as if someone glued him to the prince's side. You can say what you want about wood-elves, but they're persistent."

"That they are," Elrond agreed softly. "That they are indeed."

Otherwise the prince wouldn't still be alive, but that was a thought that remained unspoken. Glorfindel knew it only too well, after all, and he also knew that, even though the prince had woken up a few hours ago, it didn't automatically mean that he would be well. The older elf had seen more than enough wounded warriors who had taken a turn for the worse after they had already looked as if they were on the mend to know that there was no such thing as a hundred-percent guarantee that someone would recover from a serious wound like that.

It was something Celylith knew as well, or so it seemed. Elrond was hardly surprised by that; the young elf was a warrior of Mirkwood, after all, and had certainly seen his fair share of wounded elves. In addition to that, his mother had been one of Mirkwood's master healers before she had journeyed to the Havens with the silver-haired elf's sister, and had apparently taught her son enough about the healing arts for him to stay at his prince's side as if he was bound to Legolas with a length of invisible rope. Celylith paid quick, infrequent visits to Aragorn's and Elladan's room, and had also been sighted once in front of Erestor's chambers, but otherwise, that was about the scope of his activities.

Elrond found that he could not blame the younger elf for that. He knew that the only thing worse than having to sit at the bedside of someone you loved and wait was not even being able to do that.

"And he is worse than most," Glorfindel went on, oblivious of his friend's thoughts. He paused for a moment, looking at the other elf's strained, pale face. "What were you thinking about when I arrived, my friend?" he asked softly. "You seemed .. preoccupied."

Elrond would almost have snorted, and he didn't really know if it was his bone-deep weariness or the fear of one of Glorfindel's Things-a-proper-elf-lord-does-not-do speeches that stopped him in the end. "Preoccupied" was quite a nice way of putting it. Glorfindel had opened a door, walked up to and crouched down next to him and he hadn't heard a single sounds. If this had happened a few millennia ago, Gil-galad would have had his head on a platter. After some orc had cut it off first, of course.

Realising that his friend was still waiting for an answer, he said the first thing that came to his mind.  
"Bed monsters."

It was exceedingly hard to surprise Glorfindel or leave him speechless, but with this answer Elrond got rather close to at least one of the two.  
"Bed monsters?" he repeated, aiming for the deadpan tone of voice that had tinged Elrond's voice and failing.

"Yes," Elrond answered, unperturbed, as if that was the most normal thing in the world for an elf lord be saying. "The kind that I chased away from under the beds and out of the wardrobes of four children. You know, the invisible kind, the one that comes out only at night and then tries to swallow up the young ones that happen to be in the beds."

"I … see," the golden-haired elf said, even though it was more than clear that he did in fact not. "Yes, I do know the kind."

"I would take one of them right about now," Elrond went on, sounding as if he was hardly aware that he was talking out loud. "Anything but … this."

What "this" was hardly had to be explained. Glorfindel shifted a bit to the side as Elrond moved closer to the bed and once again took up the rag in the shallow bowl full of water that sat on the night stand. With tired movements that spoke of countless repetitions that had preceded this one, the half-elf wrung out the cloth and placed it on the young ranger's forehead. Aragorn's body that had been so still no more than a few minutes ago was trembling now that chills were shaking his entire form, and Glorfindel could almost see how the cloth on his forehead was dried by the heat that emanated from his body.

Glorfindel closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get his anxiety under control. How Elrond did it, he did not know; if this had been his son lying here, he would have been a quivering heap on the floor already. But that was what the half-elven healer had been talking about earlier, when he had said that he wouldn't have let Legolas see the young man no matter what. Few elves could deal with human illnesses and could watch someone they loved suffer from them. There was no equivalent for the Firstborn, and few would ever fully grasp the concept of illnesses that could strike without warning or reason. The closest there was was orc poisoning, but since goblins and their kind were notoriously uncreative, the better elven healers were familiar with most kinds. There was a new one once in a while, of course, but if you happened to suffer from it, you at least knew the reason for what you were going through.

Human illnesses on the other hand were … illogical. Illogical, and very dangerous. They had been through their fair share of illnesses since Estel had been brought to Imladris as a very young child, and a few had been even rather dangerous (as illnesses were bound to be especially for the young, old and chronically ill, or so Elrond had told him once), but never before had he seen his friend so helpless and afraid.

And rightly so, Glorfindel thought despondently. The healers of this town were completely overworked, but Tibron had managed to find a pair somewhere. Glorfindel still couldn't stand the innkeeper and had not forgiven him for the fact that he had brought him the news of Erestor's "death", but by now he knew him a bit, and he was suspecting strongly that the man had dragged the healers here the whole way.

The two men had been so exhausted that they had hardly been able to examine Elrond's human son, and had after five minutes declared that there was nothing they could do. It was a miracle that the boy was still alive, they had said, and that this kind of illness was very often fatal for the weak, the old and the young. There was nothing anyone could do, they concluded, not maliciously or in an uninterested manner, but only wearily. Nothing except praying, keeping the ranger warm and trying to get some liquids into him from time to time. If it was the Gods' will that he survived, then he would, even though that was unlikely.

From where Elrond had taken the strength to simply nod his head and thank the healers in an acceptably civil manner, Glorfindel didn't know. He knew that the half-elf was desperate – he had to be desperate if he was asking for the professional opinion of a pair of human healers. After that moment, the other elf lord hadn't left Aragorn's side for longer than an hour or two, and was keeping up his vigil with a single-minded stubbornness with which Glorfindel was only too familiar and which spoke volumes about his son's condition.

As if on cue, the young man's shivering increased, and Glorfindel could hear Elrond curse shortly and viciously half a second before Aragorn started coughing. The ranger's weakened body convulsed as his body fought to draw enough air into his afflicted lungs around the deep, hacking coughs, and Glorfindel shot to his feet and grabbed his shoulder to prevent him from rolling off the bed. For a moment, the golden-haired elf was afraid that he might be worsening the boy's condition with his actions – there was, after all, barely a patch of un-bandaged skin to be seen, especially on his torso – but when a new coughing fit seized the too thin body, making Estel shake violently, Glorfindel made up his mind and pressed the heaving body back onto the mattress.

Elrond was trying to calm his adopted son down, talking to him in a low, persuasive voice that the boy would have heeded under most circumstances, but it was clear that he was not truly aware of what was going on around him, even despite his partially open eyes. Aragorn coughed again, a hacking, panting, painful sound, and Glorfindel felt how his heart stopped for a moment when bright red blood appeared on the man's lips, bubbling with every laboured breath he took. A small, detached part of Glorfindel's brain noted calmly that the red did not look good at all in combination with the pale bluish colour that was creeping up the sides of Estel's face, but the larger part of him was very busy panicking. He knew that elf lords did not panic, but he couldn't help himself just as he hadn't been able to help himself when he had found himself in Erestor's cell, holding his friend who had been about ready and willing to give up.

"Elrond!" he finally ground out, feeling how his own helplessness threatened to overcome him. "What do we do? He can't breathe!"

"I can see that!" Elrond glared at him, still holding onto Aragorn's bandaged body as if letting go would mean something inconceivable. Barely contained panic shimmered in his eyes, belying his harsh words. "Help me sit him up!"

Glorfindel complied without another word, sliding a strong arm behind the young man's bandaged shoulders and hauling him upright in a single movement. Aragorn's head lolled against his forearm, and Glorfindel suppressed the panic that was beating against his control. He suspected that only his training prevented Elrond from freezing up and/or wringing his hands in despair. Another coughing fit shook the young ranger and more blood appeared on his lips, and just when Glorfindel was about to chance Elrond's wrath once more and ask for more instructions, the convulsions eased slightly, allowing the boy to draw more air into his lungs.

The horrible, wheezing sound that had replaced normal breathing could still be heard, echoing loudly in the small room, but Aragorn's face was regaining some of its earlier colour, the blue tint fading before their eyes as more and more oxygen found its way into his bloodstream. Glorfindel let out a long breath but kept the young man's body upright. He had never thought that he would ever be so happy to see someone be that pale.

Elrond closed his eyes for a second and placed his hand against his son's cheek, barely noticing how clammy his skin was or the heat of the fever that burned within. The fast pulse beating under his fingertips reassured him that the current crisis had passed, at least for a little while. Only half realising what he was doing, he began to search through the many bottles and jars on one of the nightstands, looking for the potion that would hopefully ease the coughing and send Estel back into the realm of deeper sleep. Even in his unconscious state it was clear that every deep breath or cough brought stabbing pain with it, and Elrond would do what he could to spare his son that.

"Is that … normal?" Glorfindel's voice invaded his thoughts, and Elrond turned toward him, a small, earthenware bottle in his hands. "The blood?"

Elrond was reminded of the first time, earlier today, when Estel's hacking coughs had brought blood onto his colourless lips. Even though he had known that he should expect it, he had felt how his heart had fallen straight into his stomach, where it had started bouncing around in a manner that had made him feel decidedly nauseous.

"Yes," he answered quietly while he was measuring the thick, syrupy liquid into a cup. His tone of voice said everything there was to say about it, all his fear and worry and helplessness, and he went on, putting the bottle back in its place, "Try to keep him still, please. He has to swallow this, and the last thing he needs now is to rip his stitches."

"And we can't have him and the young prince commit the same foolishness."

"No, indeed." Elrond shook his head. "We cannot." He leaned forward once again, one hand cupping the side of his son's face while the other was wrapped securely around the cup. "Drink this, Estel. It will help you get better, I promise."

Aragorn, however, seemed highly disinclined to comply. He was only partially awake, something he lamented wholeheartedly. If he'd have anything to say about it, he wouldn't have been awake at all and would have stayed in the comforting nothingness that seemed to have enveloped him a while ago. Try as he might, he couldn't remember when that had been, but he did know that before it there had been nothing but pain, anger, fear and burning hatred. He might only be partially awake, in too much pain and too exhausted to concentrate, but stupid he was not. He knew that, if you had the choice between (apparently) slowly suffocating and painless darkness, only an idiot would choose the first.

"…please, _ion nín_. You have to drink this. It will take the pain away. Please, Estel. Just drink this. Everything is all right, trust me … "

Aragorn frowned inwardly, pain pulsing through him with every shallow, uneven breath he took. Whoever it was that was talking to him, he was either mad or highly imperceptive. He was feeling hot and cold at the same time, could not catch his breath no matter what he did, his chest was on fire, there was a cold knot of nausea in the pit of his stomach, his head was threatening to explode and his whole body ached in a steady rhythm with his not-so-steady heartbeat. _Nothing_ was all right.

Something was pressed against his lips, but a memory of cold water that streamed into his mouth and filled his nose and threatened to choke him hit him like a flash. He would have liked to fight against whoever was trying to force something upon him which he did not want, but he only had enough energy to turn his head slightly to the side. The voice began talking again, sounding more insistent, but the little movement had used up all the energy he'd had to spare. The burning pain in his chest and the horrible, light-headed feeling that he associated with being slowly strangled to death pulled him back to awareness, however, no matter how much he might resent that particular fact.

Another coughing fit shook him before he could make much progress, making Aragorn feel as if his chest was filled with metal shards that stabbed into his lungs, and when it was finally over, after an eternity or two, he had no energy to do anything but try and pull oxygen into his lungs. That wasn't working out too well, though, and so he felt himself slipping away once more, only to be stopped by a strong voice that was sharp with an emotion Aragorn had no strength to try and identify.

"Estel! Drink this, now!"

It was a tone of voice he knew, a tone of voice he somehow associated with being twelve, dirty and late for formal dinners. A vague hope began to fill his maltreated chest, and so he dragged his eyelids open all the way, using most of what little energy he still possessed for this task. Someone's arm was slung around his back, the hand resting on his shoulder and the forearm steadying his head, and someone's (someone else's? the same person's?) face was hovering in front of his.

It took him a long time to identify said face, the shadows of the darkened room making that simple task almost impossible, but in the end it assumed the forms of a face he knew only too well and which he would have loved to see. The only problem was that he knew that its owner shouldn't be here and that he had to be dreaming.

"_Ada_?" he whispered anyway, or rather tried to. His voice was gone, and the rasping sound that escaped his sore throat could not have been called a properly articulated word even by the friendliest of observers.

It seemed to make the person who was looking down on him very happy, though, for a broad, somewhat shaky smile spread over his features, erasing some of the lines that worry and fear had left in the even, smooth features.

"Yes, _ion nín_," Elrond answered, feeling almost giddy with relief. Aragorn's eyes were glazed with fever and pain, but he _knew_ him! "Drink this, please. It will ease your coughs and will make it easier to breathe and sleep."

Aragorn stared at him uncomprehendingly, silver eyes dark and glassy, and just when Elrond was about to repeat his earlier words he spoke again, the word so soft that Elrond needed more intuition than anything else to understand what he was saying.  
"…'dicine?"

Elrond felt how his smile widened even more, and a detached part of him warned him quietly that his face would split into two if he kept this up. He couldn't have cared less.  
"Yes, Estel, medicine. I am sorry, but it tastes just like all the others."

He pressed the cup against Aragorn's lips again, and this time the young ranger did not protest, either because he was too exhausted or actually understood what his father was telling him. It took some time, but in the end the cup was empty. Almost in the exact same moment Aragorn's eyes closed and his head fell back against Glorfindel's arm, his exhausted body not even truly needing the drugged potion to be sent back to sleep.

In a matter of moments, the ranger was resting as peacefully as possible, his upper body propped up with all the pillows, cushions and extra blankets Glorfindel had been able to find. Checking his son's temperature once more – it was still far too high, he noted with displeasure – Elrond sank back into the armchair, running a slightly shaking hand over his face.

"Should I tell the twins that he has woken up?"

Glorfindel's question caused him to turn around, and he looked at his seneschal, noticing for the first time the anxiety and worry that radiated off his broad frame. Glorfindel was a warrior, yes, and even though he had fought with his fair share of human soldiers, he had rarely been in contact with any that had been seriously ill. The helpless terror that had taken a hold of the golden-haired elf could still be seen in his eyes even though his face was calm and his voice was firm, and not for the first time Elrond asked himself just where he would be without his friend.

"Yes, please." Elrond nodded his head, suddenly feeling so tired that he hardly found the strength for this minute movement. "I am sure they will rush here with all haste for nothing, but not telling them is not an option."

Glorfindel nodded as well.  
"I will be back in a few minutes."

He turned and had already reached the door when Elrond's voice halted him in his tracks.  
"Glorfindel."

The golden-haired elf turned back around and gave his younger friend a quizzical look.  
"Yes?"

Elrond struggled for words that would convey all he was feeling, and finally gave up, settling for the simplest version.  
"Thank you for your help."

The other elf lord only looked at him, an eyebrow arched in a way that said very clearly how stupid a statement he thought this to be.  
"Always, _mellon nín_," he said, a small smile brightening his features. "For you and for him."

He gave his friend a half-sketched bow and turned back around. A moment later the door was closed almost soundlessly, and Elrond turned back around, to the bed and the once again still figure of his human son. Aragorn was still shivering and the heat of the fever that burned within him could be felt where he was sitting, but at least the horrible coughing had stopped for now.

Elrond leaned back in his armchair, letting his eyes wander about the semi-dark room before they once again came to rest on the young man. He might be imagining things, but he was almost ready to swear that the bluish colour that had terrified him so was slowly receding, and that the laboured breathing was also improving. Not quickly, no, and the coughing still had to abate, but it was getting there. Aragorn's condition was not worsening, and he had woken up and recognised him.

And that was all he needed to keep the night at bay, at least for now.  
**  
** **  
** **  
**  
There it was. He had been waiting for it for so long, longer than he could remember waiting for anything for a long time, and here it finally was.

The first sign was the light itself, the way in which the darkness slowly receded and brightened in that unique, breathtaking way. He was always looking for the exact moment when the darkness ceased to be darkness and the light overcame it, when the first beams of brilliant light crept over the horizon, heralding the rising sun, but he had never caught it, not once in his long years.

It didn't matter. In fact, a lot of things that would have annoyed him before did not matter to him anymore, and this certainly was one of them. He was seeing the sun rise, after all, seeing one of the most beautiful natural phenomena there was in this world, and that was something that made him endlessly content.

With a sigh of deep satisfaction, Erestor sat back in his armchair, or probably slumped back in his chair, as he would have said if he had felt like being honest with himself. He did not, however, not by a long shot. He did not know who was rubbing off on him here, whether it were Elrond's sons plus assorted friends or Glorfindel, but he was beginning to see what was so attractive about not admitting your own faults and limitations to yourself.

It would also have meant admitting that the healers had been right for once and that he was not ready to leave his bed, and that was something he would not do. With the exception of Elrond, his sons and Lady Gaerîn, he was not overly fond of healers (he wasn't even overly fond of Lady Gaerîn, if he was perfectly honest), and he was not going to admit that any of them was right about anything unless he absolutely had to.

He smiled lopsidedly. He was actually not only not fond of Lady Gaerîn; she was one of the few people of which he was truly afraid. She might not look like much, with her petite build and deceptively innocent-looking grey eyes, but that was just another example of how dangerous predators hid in the guise of harmless beings. The red-haired healer was about as innocent as a warg that had just ripped out someone's throat. How Captain Isál could be in love with her was something he would probably never understand, but he was willing to overlook that slight hint of insanity. The captain had played a not-so-small part in his rescue, after all, and for that he owed him his eternal gratitude.

It seemed, Erestor went on calmly, that he owed quite a lot of people his eternal gratitude. He didn't really know to whom he owed most, but he suspected that either Elrond or Glorfindel occupied that post. The dark-haired elf smiled slightly. His recollections of the past days were rather hazy at best, but he still knew that Glorfindel had been there most of the time when he'd woken up. It was a behaviour highly unlike the golden-haired elf, who was not one to worry or hover needlessly, and it was almost beginning to worry him.

"Here you are," a soft voice behind him commented, apparently designed not to alarm him. It did not, in fact. He knew whose voice it was and would have recognised it anywhere, and almost nothing Glorfindel could say could ever alarm him.

"Here I am," he said without turning around. The sun was rising, after all, and he would not miss a second of it unless he really had to.

It was silent for a few moments, but then a soft, dragging sound could be heard. Erestor only needed a few seconds to work out what was going on behind him: Glorfindel was dragging another armchair next to his, in a way that was quite hilarious if one considered that the other elf lord had lectured countless young elves on how young elf lords were not supposed to drag furniture around.

The chair's feet were scraping over the floor, making low sounds that grated on Erestor's ears, until it came to a stop right next to him. The large window in front of which he was sitting was just big enough for two armchairs to be placed in front of it, and soon the second one was occupied by a rather smug-looking elf lord who leaned back against the cushions, golden hair spilling over the back. If Glorfindel was aware of the fact that he had just broken at least two of his own rules (Number 45 and 52, if Erestor wasn't very much mistaken), he certainly did not show it.

"There are a few healers looking for you," Glorfindel informed him nonchalantly. "You can be glad that Gaerîn is not here. She would have already found you. I swear to you, that she-elf is part bloodhound."

"Do not let Captain Isál hear you say that," Erestor advised him, his eyes still fixed on the rising sun. "He might take offence in her name, though she clearly needs no champion to defend her honour."

"Nor does a dragon need soldiers to guard its hoard." Glorfindel nodded in agreement.

Silence fell once again, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Glorfindel divided his attention between his friend (who was clearly out of bed against the explicit orders of his caretakers) and the rising sun, trying to shake the unreasonable feeling that something would go terribly wrong if he took his eyes off the other elf for longer than a few hours. It was preposterous, of course, but even the oldest and wisest of their kind were not free from such fears.

"I thought I would never see it again." Erestor finally broke the silence, his voice full of wonder and sounding as if he was barely aware that Glorfindel was sitting next to him. "I thought I would die without seeing the sky again, or the stars or the moon or the sun. That fear, I think, was worse than anything Gasur did to me."

"Erestor…" Glorfindel began, but the dark-haired elf kept on talking as if he hadn't even heard him.

"When they put me into that new cell, the one without the window, I thought I would die. I can remember thinking 'So, this is it. There is no way out of this now.' The strange thing is that I wasn't even afraid by that time. If anything, I was glad, glad that it would be over soon." He finally turned and looked at Glorfindel, a tight smile on his face. "By then, I had got a little bit tired of being hit all the time."

This time, Glorfindel didn't even try to say anything and merely looked at the dark-haired elf and the forced smile that was on his lips, a strange blankness in his eyes. Erestor's smile withered and died after a few moments, and he averted his eyes and looked at his hands. One of them, the left one, was heavily bandaged up to his elbow, and the sight forced the insincere, somewhat forced merriment inside of him back down.

It wasn't so much the hand that was bothering him – Elrond had had a look at it while they had still been in Donrag, and had actually re-broken most of his fingers to give them the chance to heal properly. He hadn't been awake for it this time, though, Elbereth be thanked. Elrond had assured him that, due to elven healing powers and if he gave himself enough time and didn't try to use the hand before it was ready, the broken bones should knit, even though he had been careful not to make any promises. Elrond was too experienced a healer to make promises he could not keep, and the very simple fact was that his fingers had started to heal in crooked positions more than a week ago. Elven healing powers and Elrond's skill notwithstanding, no one could guarantee anything under the circumstances.

He had expected nothing else. While he had been alone in the cell, he'd had more than enough time to get accustomed to the idea that he might never again regain full control over his hand, and even though the prospect still scared him, it did not terrify him anymore. That Elrond hadn't taken a single look at the appendage and had reached for a bone saw was more than he had dared hope for – the half-elf had even told him that he had done quite a good job when he had tried to straighten the limbs.

Elrond had been lying, of course. He hadn't done a good job, he knew that quite well, but he appreciated him saying it nonetheless. His friend had then directed a stern look at him and told him that, no matter how well he, Erestor, might have done it earlier, he would take over now, probably trying to make him understand the seriousness of the situation and to make sure that he did not fiddle with the bandages or splints or try to use the hand before it had healed.

That was something Elrond wouldn't have had to worry about. Erestor was firmly and thoroughly determined not to disobey a single word of what the healers were telling him and follow each and every one of their recommendations. He might have got used to the idea of being crippled, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't do everything in his power to avoid it.

And even though all this weighed heavily on his mind, it wasn't his injury per se that was bothering him. It was the image that had burnt itself into his mind, the image of the expression on Gasur's face when he had broken one of his fingers after the other. No amount of nonchalance could ever disguise the pain, fear, hatred and self-loathing he felt at the memories, and he very much doubted that he would ever be able to forget any of it. Over the past few days, he had tried to do so, had tried very hard, in fact, but he wasn't overly successful. He wasn't even able to fool himself, and he doubted that he had been able to fool anybody else.

For example, he added, giving his silent, still companion a quick look, Glorfindel.

As if the other elf had read his thoughts, a hand that had been hovering over his shoulder without him having noticed it slowly descended, just as if he was a skittish deer and its owner did not wish to startle him. He did startle, though, even though he should have expected something like this to happen. He startled so badly, in fact, that he nearly jumped out of his armchair and out of the window. Glorfindel withdrew his hand as if he had been burned by the contact, and if Erestor hadn't been so busy forcing himself to settle back down again, pushing back the sudden pain that was blossoming in his many wounds and calming his racing heart, he would have seen the horrified look on the other elf's face.

"I … I am sorry!" Glorfindel said with uncharacteristic hesitation, an equally uncharacteristic flustered expression on his face. "Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you."

If Erestor had been in a slightly calmer state of mind, he would probably have laughed out loud. To say that he had been startled was quite a redundant statement. He had nearly jumped out of the window, for Elbereth's sake! He was not, however, and for long moments he could do nothing but clench his uninjured hand and force himself to take deep breaths. His sudden movement had jarred his wounds, and for a while he actually embraced the pain as a welcome distraction. It quickly abated somewhat, however, and so he soon had to face reality again. And Glorfindel, of course.

"There is nothing to forgive," Erestor told the other elf lord finally, when he had got his wildly racing heart under control. If it hadn't been so undignified, he would have hung his head. He, Lord Erestor of Imladris, who was considered one of the most unflappable and calm elves this side of the Great Sea, had jumped three feet into the air because one of his best friends had touched his shoulder after having given him ample warning. Only a month ago he would have found the idea ridiculous indeed. "The fault is entirely mine," he went on. "You are not to be blamed for my … exaggerated reaction."

Glorfindel shot him a look that was above and beyond incredulous.  
"Exaggerated reaction?" he asked, not averting his eyes from the younger elf's face. Erestor had always thought that Glorfindel could look at you just as penetratingly as their lord, but he had never known it to be true quite to this extent. "Is that how you see it, Erestor? As an exaggerated reaction that is _your fault_?"

"Surely." Erestor inclined his head fractionally. A lot of things had changed, apparently, for he could not keep looking at the golden-haired elf and had to avoid his gaze. When he continued, his voice was barely more than a whisper. "Whose else could it be?"

Glorfindel actually couldn't think of anything to say for a few moments, something that was notoriously hard to achieve. The incredulous surprise was soon joined by guilt, though, when he realised that he hadn't spent nearly as much time with the other elf as he should have during the past few days. He had been too busy organising everything and helping keep Elrond halfway functioning and sane. There were other reasons, of course, the most unimportant one being that Erestor had been sleeping for a lot of the time and that he hadn't wanted to be in anyone's way. The more important ones, however, were the ones he did not even admit to himself.

Be that as it may, he should have been more aware of how his friend was doing. Over the last few days he had made impressive progress, up to the point where he could leave his bed without falling flat on his face. He couldn't walk unaided, of course – his broken ankle would still need some more time to heal – but with a walking stick, he could actually get quite far already. The rest of his injuries was healing slowly as well, and even though he was still far from mended (and be it only physically), he was already strong enough to escape the healers. Even though that, if he knew the other elf at all, meant precious little.

Still, he was still far too weak and his health was fragile at best. In the end, the knowledge that he was free had helped far more than any medicine even Elrond could think of. The bruises and the burn mark on his face were fading, but there were shadows on his features that hadn't been there before and that no salve could possibly heal.

"Are you serious?" he finally asked. Erestor looked up and arched an eyebrow wordlessly, something that was so like his old self that, and be it only for a moment, Glorfindel was very glad to have caused his friend to come out of wherever he had been hiding these past weeks. "Perish the thought. Of course you are serious."

"I do not wish to discuss this, Glorfindel," Erestor told him flatly. "I am mending, and they are dead. There is nothing more to say."

"Nothing more to say?" Glorfindel repeated, flabbergasted. He was beginning to feel quite a bit like a parrot. "There is much more to say!"

"Glorfindel." Erestor looked at him, his eyes dark, serious and more haunted than the eyes of any other elf Glorfindel had seen in quite a while. "I – do not – wish – to discuss it."

The blond elf closed his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side.  
"I understand," he finally said. "I understand that far too well, Erestor. And I will not press you on this. We can talk about it once you are ready. I know that, above anything else, one needs time to deal with something … something like this."

"Time." Erestor's voice was soft and faintly mocking. "I am immortal, one of the Eldar, and yet I know that there will never be enough time for the memories to disappear."

"No, they shall never disappear," Glorfindel agreed. "They cannot, and they will not. Some memories stay with you forever – to your joy or your grief. I can remember as if it had been yesterday how the Tower of the King fell, how Ecthelion died and how our entire city and all her people came to ruin."

This caused Erestor to raise his head and look at his exceptionally dark-eyed friend. Glorfindel did not discuss the Fall of Gondolin often or freely. In fact, Glorfindel did not discuss the Fall of Gondolin at all, period. Speaking meaningless words of comfort had never been his forte, however – that was something that had not changed! – and besides, he knew Glorfindel well enough to know that he would not be interested in them, either.

"How do you live with the memories, then?" he asked, trying not to sound as forlorn as he felt. They had never discussed this before, not even during the times they had both got stone-cold drunk. "How can you stand it?"

"On some days more easily than on others," Glorfindel admitted. "They _will_ fade, no matter what you might think now. One day, you may even be able to forget what happened, at least for a time."

"For a time." Erestor nodded bitterly. "I see."

"It is better than the alternative." Glorfindel's voice was calm, but also utterly serious. Erestor looked at him questioningly, and so he went on, "Death. It is better than Mandos' Halls, _mellon nín_, trust me." He shook his head, and when he looked up, there was the old, teasing sparkle in his eyes, the one that had more than once driven Erestor to the brink of madness or homicidal urges. "It can get dreadfully boring there."

"If you are there, I seriously doubt it," Erestor retorted. "Námo did throw you out, didn't he?"

"That is something that is between him and me."

"I would say so."

Glorfindel didn't reply immediately, his eyes fixed on the other elf's face. He might not be as well-schooled and proficient in diplomacy as Erestor or Elrond, but he recognised an attempt at evasion when it was jumping up and down in front of him, begging for attention. Erestor, however, seemed disinclined to say anything more, and so Glorfindel inwardly clenched his teeth and steeled himself.

"We digress, Erestor, as you are very well aware. None of this was your fault: Not what happened, not what was done to you, and not your very understandable reactions."

Erestor reacted in more or less the exact way that Glorfindel had predicted. The dark-haired elf sat up as straight as his various bandages permitted him and stared at him in a way that made him very glad that Erestor was still too weak to stand unaided for much longer than half a minute.

"Just what part of 'I do not wish to discuss it' escapes you, my lord?" Erestor wasn't yelling or even raising his voice, but the icy undertone in his voice almost made Glorfindel wish that he was. "I will _not_ talk to you about this, most certainly not now!"

"I do not want to you to talk to me about this," Glorfindel retorted, sounding infuriatingly unimpressed by the other's words. "I know what you are going through, Erestor, please believe me. I do! I know that you are not ready to talk about what happened, and I respect it. I will not, nor would I ever, force you to tell me things you are not ready to divulge. What have I ever done that would make you think otherwise?"

Erestor's glare did not diminish; if anything, it became more fearsome. He, contrary to Glorfindel, _was_ a diplomat, and he knew when someone was trying to distract him. And Glorfindel, he thought darkly, was not particularly subtle about it.

"Nothing," the dark-haired elf admitted. An objective observer might have called his tone of voice decidedly gruff. "You have done nothing like that. I did not mean to insinuate that you had."

"You have not." Glorfindel shook his head with a small smile that was just a tiny step away from being smug. "And I know that you did not mean to insinuate anything. What I am talking about, however, is something completely different. It is about blaming yourself for things that were beyond your power to influence. You are not responsible for anything that happened."

"It is not about responsibility," Erestor protested, his voice flat and weary, as if he had realised that there was no way Glorfindel would accept no for an answer.

"Then what is it about?" the golden-haired elf asked, only just managing to mask a slightly exasperated tone of voice. If Erestor wanted to, he could be as close-mouthed as an oyster.

For long moments, the other elf lord didn't answer, staring firmly at the rising sun.  
"Pride," he finally answered, his voice so soft that Glorfindel could hardly hear him. "Dignity. Integrity. Self-esteem. Honour. And about a thousand things in between."

"Oh, Erestor." Glorfindel closed his eyes and shook his head. There was a deep sadness on his face, and a mournful tone in his voice when he spoke again. "You have lost none of these things. Do not say this. No one can take anything from you unless you permit it."

"Oh, but they can!" This time, Erestor was raising his voice. "How they can!"

"No, they cannot," Glorfindel told him firmly. "When did you lose your dignity or honour? While you were tortured or after it? Tell me, when?"

"Somewhere in between," the other said, in a completely emotionless and dispassionate tone of voice. He looked down on his hands and took a deep, shuddering breath. "He made me beg, Glorfindel."

Glorfindel didn't even notice how his fingers balled themselves into tight fists. The forlorn, hopeless tone of voice that had tinged the younger elf's voice awoke in him the very vivid wish that he hadn't killed Gasur so quickly or painlessly. He should have taken his time with this … creature, and actually should have done a few of the things he had come up with during the long, dark nights he had thought Erestor to be dead.

"Everybody begs, Erestor," he told the councillor quietly. "It is only a matter of time."

"Not me." Erestor shook his head so quickly that Glorfindel could almost hear the bones cracking. "I … I..."

He trailed off helplessly, and Glorfindel threw caution into the wind and once again put a hand on his friend's forearm. This time, Erestor did not jump, even though it was a rather close thing.

"I have," he said matter-of-factly, being careful not to sound as if he simply wanted to console the other elf. "When I was a young and very foolish elf, before Gondolin was even a thought on Lord Turgon's mind, I did not heed my elder's warnings and headed off to a hunting trip alone. I know, I know," he added, vainly trying to lighten the mood somewhat, "I was then as I am now. As you can imagine, I ran into some trouble, namely a horde of orcs that was on a scouting mission." He shook his head slightly, a wan smile on his lips. "I was a right fool, to travel alone after nightfall, especially in this part of Beleriand. Before I even knew what was happening, I was surrounded, and after a few minutes, I was lying on my back on the ground, half a dozen scimitars pointing at my throat."

He fell silent for a minute, looking out of the window. He didn't even notice that Erestor was staring at him with wide eyes; good friends they were, yes, but they usually didn't tell each other this kind of stories.

"They could have taken me to Angband. I do not know why they did not, but I thank the Kindler for it every single day of my life. I was too far away from our encampment for any help to arrive. Night was falling – by the time anybody would have noticed my absence the coming morrow, I would have been beyond aid and hope. The orcs back then, however, were more … savage than they are today, if that is the right word. Their kind was younger, and their hate for us even stronger than it is now, if such a things is possible. Be that as it may," he shrugged in a manner that was probably supposed to look unconcerned and nonchalant and looked neither, "they did not. They had no knowledge of our presence there, and thought that they had more than enough time before anybody would miss me. Before they went anywhere, they wanted to have some fun."

"Glorfindel," Erestor interrupted him. "I had no idea."

Glorfindel forced a small smile onto his lips.  
"I know. No one on this side of the Sundering Seas knows, except for Elrond and perhaps Círdan. Actually, Lady Galadriel's brothers might have mentioned it to her, but I doubt it. But none of this is important," he went on, raising his head and looked straight at the younger elf. "Ecthelion, who knew me well enough, soon had the feeling that something was amiss and assembled a search party. The warriors of my house found me after a little more than three days."

"You don't have to talk to me about this, Glorfindel," Erestor interrupted him again, made uneasy by the dark, haunted expression in his friend's eyes. "You…"

"I had started begging them after two days, Erestor." Glorfindel ignored the other elf lord's words, intent on finishing his story. "After three days, I would have given anything to die." He paused and raised his head, looking straight at the dark-haired councillor. "I begged them to stop, even though I knew that they would not and that it would only increase their enjoyment. I would have said anything – _anything_ – if I had thought that it make them stop."

"This is different." Erestor shook his head stubbornly, though with a lot less conviction than before. "You were facing a group of orcs. I was only facing a single human. You were young. I, on the other hand, am not an elfling."

"True." Glorfindel nodded, looking very calm and composed. "I was young, and yet in a way I was older than the twins are now. You know what the world was like back then, Erestor. You grew up fast, or you didn't grow up at all. And yet: Could I say that it would be different now?" He shook his head slowly and wearily. "Since then, I have seen and been through a lot. I have seen more pain and death and suffering for three or four lifetimes. It would take them longer to make me beg now, surely. Still: Could I tell you with absolute, total certainty that I would remain silent no matter what they did to me? I would like to tell you yes, but the truth is that I cannot. When you are in such a situation long enough, when you are faced with tormentors who know what they are doing and are doing it for their own sick pleasures and you have no hope of rescue or escape, there is no predicting what you will say when the pain becomes too much."

Erestor didn't retort anything, which was usually a good sign and meant that he was hastily trying to reorganise his arguments. Glorfindel pressed on.

"There is no shame in this, Erestor. Your honour has not been touched by it, and neither have your dignity or integrity." He leaned forward, eyes firmly fixed on the other's face. "I begged after two days, Erestor. How many days did it take Gasur to make you beg? No, do not tell me; this is about no one but you. Contemplate the answer, contemplate it in the wise and objective way for which you are known, and you will see that I am right and that nothing has changed. That which makes you yourself has not been touched. It would take something far more terrible than that … man to achieve that, if something ever could."

Erestor remained silent for a little longer, and finally raised his head again and fixed the golden-haired elf with one of his patented, firm stares.  
"Did you just call me wise, my Lord Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel smiled, recognising a graceful acknowledgement when he saw it.  
"Indeed I did, my Lord Erestor. And anyone who wishes to content that will have to answer to me." The smile slowly faded as another thought struck him, and he took a deep breath. "There is one more thing on my mind, though. I wish to … to beg your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" The sombre mood from earlier was gone, and Erestor stared at him in open confusion. "Forgiveness for what? I hope that this is not the beginning of one of these 'This-is-all-my-fault speeches' of which you and your warriors are so fond. I do not think that I am strong enough for that yet."

"Do not concern yourself, it is not." Glorfindel's smile faded even more, even despite his humorous words. "Rationally, I know that it was not my fault. Elrond did not know what was going to happen nor did he predict it, and if he cannot, how could I know? It was a risk sending only six warriors with you, we all knew that, but if you had achieved what you set out to do, if you could have mediated a truce without anybody losing their lives, it would have been well worth it."

"Finally." Erestor smiled at him, the smile lighting up his bruised features. "I have been telling you that for hours on end."

"Contrary to what you may believe, my lord, I am quite capable of learning." Erestor's smile grew broader, something that made Glorfindel so glad that he almost forgot what he was talking about. "I ask your forgiveness for not coming to see you more often. I … I know that I should have, and there is no excuse for my behaviour. I…" He trailed off, something that was as untypical for him as running out of arguments was for Erestor. "I was frightened. I was frightened of having to watch you die, and so I gladly took the opportunity to take on other duties as they were presented to me."

"Just what are you talking about?" Erestor clearly couldn't follow the other elf's reasoning. "I have to admit that the memories of the first few days are extremely hazy in my mind, but I seem to remember that you were threatened more than once with being evicted from the room because you were taking up too much space and were hovering too closely to the bed."

"I do not 'hover'."

"Yes, you do," the dark-haired elf brushed his words aside. "And do not try to change the subject. You were there so often that the younger healers began to refer to you as the 'standard lamp'."

"The 'standard lamp'!" Glorfindel repeated incredulously, raising an eyebrow in a faintly threatening manner.

"I said nothing."

"No respect," Glorfindel grumbled, doing his best to sound disgruntled and failing. "That's the problem with the young ones nowadays." He shook his head slightly, the amusement fading from his eyes. "I was too scared to be there for you, Erestor. When I found you, you were … you were…"

"Yes?" Erestor prompted gently. He had only very unclear memories of the time Glorfindel was talking about, and could not remember what he might have said or done.

"You were dying," the golden-haired elf answered plainly. "I would almost have been too late. Elrond told me that I would have been, too, if I'd reached your side only half an hour later. Rarely have I been so glad as when I found you alive in that cell, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you yet again. I simply could not, and so I stayed away."

Erestor didn't say anything for a long time and merely looked at his blond friend and the guilt and anguish that shone in his eyes. In the end, he began to smile.  
"Even considering the circumstances, I believe that this is one of the nicest thing you have ever said to me, Glorfindel."

"Do not mock me, please." Glorfindel shook his head sharply. "I could bear your disappointment or your anger, but not your scorn."

"I am not mocking you, you thick-headed Vanya," Erestor said, his smile widening. "I meant every word of it. And tell me this: Just why would I be disappointed in you, or angry at you, or even show you contempt? You saved me, Glorfindel. You found me when I had already long ago given up hope of being rescued. There is nothing I could give or tell you that would ever reward you for what you have done for me."

"I was almost too late," Glorfindel protested. "Half an hour more and…"

"But you weren't," Erestor interrupted him firmly. "You were there on time. You found me, and you killed Gasur." At that, a dangerous, satisfied sparkle appeared in the other's blue eyes, and Erestor found himself hard-pressed not to start smiling darkly. "That is something for which I will always be in your debt."

"Oh, no." Glorfindel shook his head almost lazily. "_That_ was my pleasure, you have to believe me, _mellon nín_."

Erestor did believe him, without doubt or question.

"So," he went on, sounding almost as if he was back in some sort of negotiation and was summing up its proceedings, "Just let us agree that I am right and that, if anyone owes anything to anybody else, it is I…"

"I do not agree with _that_."

"…and that I will always be in your debt."

"I do not agree with that either. You are in no one's debt, and least of all in mine."

"Then think about agreeing with it, and I might think about agreeing with your earlier words."

Glorfindel looked at him out of slit eyes. He was contemplating the dark-haired advisor in a way that very clearly stated without words that he was expecting him to have hidden a trap in that statement.  
"Make that 'will think' instead of 'might think', and we might indeed come to an agreement."

"So clever," Erestor teased him. "You would have made a fine diplomat and ambassador, my Lord Glorfindel."

"I have been both in the past, my lord, and have fulfilled that role most poorly indeed." The golden-haired elf shook his head with a smile, but his eyes were serious. "I would not wish to replace one like yourself, who is so much better suited for it."

"And you will not have to," Erestor stated immediately, and found to his surprise that he meant it. No matter what happened or how long it would take, he would not relinquish the duties that had always filled him with both satisfaction and pride.

"I am glad to hear that." Glorfindel's smile widened. "Very glad."

"I can imagine," Erestor said. "You hate paperwork."

"I do. Every sensible person does."

"I am not having this discussion with you again," the advisor told the other elf firmly, and inwardly couldn't help but wonder how much he was enjoying this kind of familiar, mock-insulting conversation with Glorfindel. If the blond elf wanted to, he could take your mind off almost anything, that much was true. "There is, however, something I actually do wish to discuss with you."

Glorfindel turned serious immediately.  
"What?"

"Elrond," Erestor said bluntly. "You have to talk to him."

"Elrond?" Glorfindel repeated. He looked more surprised than Erestor had seen him in long years. "Whatever for?"

"Don't pretend to be clueless, my lord; it does not become you," Erestor told him. Glorfindel merely looked at him expressionlessly, and the other elf arched an eyebrow. "Are you telling me that you don't know?"

"Don't know what?" Glorfindel spoke in a long-suffering tone of voice, looking at his friend patiently. It was a tone of voice a parent might have used in order not to upset a sick child.

Erestor began to shake his head vigorously, winced when the sharp movement jarred one of his wounds, and settled for incredulously raised eyebrows. Usually, it would have been quite an impressive sight, but right now his face was covered in too many fading, very colourful bruises for it to have its usual effect.  
"The two of you. Communication is truly not your speciality, is it?"

Glorfindel's long-suffering tone of voice was joined by a long-suffering expression that attached itself so firmly to his features that Erestor guessed that not even a crowbar or strong alcohol could have removed it.  
"Communication about what?"

Erestor breathed out, something that was rather painful due to his bruised ribs.  
"He came to see me after Estel had woken up."

That didn't mean that Elrond hadn't visited him before that; it had merely been the first time he had been lucid enough to recognise him and actually have a conversation that consisted of more than two or three garbled sounds. It had also been the first time he had been able to hold onto his wits long enough to ask what had happened to Estel and Legolas in particular and everybody else in general, and he could still remember the almost heart-stopping relief that had coursed through him when he had been told that there had been few losses and that both Elrond's youngest and Lord Thranduil's son were still alive.

Barely, mind you. Prince Legolas was doing slightly better now, even though one could not say that he was well by any means of the words. He was still sleeping for most of the time, too drugged to realise what was going on around him, but his wound showed only signs of a minor infection. Barring any unforeseen complications (and, unfortunately, many of those could occur!), he should recover, though, or so the half-elf had assured him. And Aragorn … well, judging by the expression on Elrond's face, Aragorn was still only one or maybe one and a half steps away from Mandos' Halls. Elrond had managed to get the fever more or less under control, but the illness was not beaten yet. The rest of his injuries Elrond had refused to speak about, saying that they would hardly matter if they did not manage to get the pneumonia under control. He understood precious little about medicine in general and human medicine in particular, but he knew his lord, and right now Elrond was as worried about his human son's health as he had probably ever been.

Erestor would have liked to go and see them, both of them, but Elrond had merely laughed tiredly when he had told him so. He was no fool and had seen enough of Elrond in a fury to know when not to oppose or contradict him, and had taken the laugh as the denial of permission that it was. He knew this to be logical and sensible, for he very much doubted that either of the two would even know if he was there or not, but sooner or later, he would go and see them, no matter what Elrond said. He owed the two of them his life as much as he owed it to Glorfindel, and try as he might, he couldn't get the image of Estel's serious face out of his mind, vowing solemnly that they would bring back help for him. He had kept his word, but both he and the prince had paid a heavy price for it.

"And what happened before he became too nervous and returned to the young one's room?"

Glorfindel's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he blinked and returned his attention to his blond friend.  
"He feels guilty because he chose to remain at the prince's side instead of rushing off to help me. He feels that he has betrayed me and the friendship we have shared for so long a time now. He thinks that I bear him a grudge because of this, and also because of the fact that this mission went so spectacularly wrong."

Glorfindel looked at him as if he had just stated that Elrond had grown a pair of wings and fluttered around the room for a few minutes.  
"And how do you know all this?"

Erestor returned the look without the least bit of trouble, and also managed to include the wordless suspicion that Glorfindel was being particularly slow-witted today.

"He told me." Glorfindel's look did not change, and so he added, "Some people actually talk to each other, Glorfindel. Not all of us insist on hiding our feelings and avoiding other people unless you are cornered and forced to speak. I told him that I think nothing of the sort, that I bear him no ill feelings and that he is a fool for even thinking it possible that I do. I think he believed me. It will take him some time to accept it, but that is the way of things."

"But why would I need to talk to him?" the golden-haired elf asked, somewhat disgruntled. "This is between you and him, and I would not intrude."

Erestor looked at him as if his worst suspicions had indeed been proven true and Glorfindel's brain had just leaked out of his ears.  
"Because he thinks the same of you, Glorfindel. He feels that by refusing to leave Prince Legolas' side, he has angered you."

"'Angered' me?" Glorfindel repeated, flabbergasted. He couldn't have been more surprised if Erestor had just told him that Elrond had decided to join forces with Sauron in order to subjugate Middle-earth. "I understand his decision, of course I do. I was not happy when he made it, but I was not exactly in an … amenable mood then. He is a healer, and our lord as well. I understand that he must put his personal feelings aside and judge dispassionately. I have led more troops into battle than I can count; I know the burden of command well. Why would I blame him for something that was only part of his duties?"

"You wouldn't," Erestor told him patiently. "I know that, and I think, deep down, he knows that, too. But you also know how Elrond is. Give him half a chance and he'll blame himself for the invention of steel weapons."

"You do have a point."

"Of course I do." Erestor nodded his head. "Go and talk to him. Tell him what you just told me, and you will take a great weight off his shoulders. He needs you, Glorfindel, more than he perhaps knows himself. He could not live with himself thinking that he had done something that you cannot or will not forgive him."

"He could never do that." Glorfindel shook his head firmly. "Never. Nothing Elrond could do could be so terrible that I would not forgive him."

"Tell him that as well," Erestor advised him, fighting against the tired tremor in his voice. He had been up too long, and this conversation had drained him more than he had thought possible. "I think that, sometimes, he needs to hear it from someone. If he hears it from you, all the better."

Glorfindel looked at him for long moments, scrutinising him, before he nodded slowly.  
"I will do as you say. As soon as I can find him alone and relatively rested, I will talk to him." He gave him another long look. "And now, I think, I will do what the healers sent me out to do and will take you back to your room. I know that you are impatient to leave your bed, my friend, but you will need at least five more days before you can get even close to that."

"Oh?" Erestor arched his eyebrows. "And you know that because you apprenticed with a healer, became a master and forgot to tell me about it?"

"Exactly. I just obtained the title yesterday."

"That explains it," the dark-haired elf said wryly. He hesitated for a moment, looking back at the open window and the glorious sunrise. "Could we wait a few more minutes? I would really like to watch her for a while longer, if you would chance the healers' wrath."

Glorfindel hid his smile as well as he could.  
"I am in no hurry to help any of them," he told the other elf. "Ten more minutes will hardly matter. She is beautiful today, and even worthier of being looked at than usual."

He couldn't have put it better himself, Erestor decided. Arien, the Maia who guided the sun across the heavens, was beautiful today, shining so brightly that he could hardly look at her. The sight filled him with hope and elation, just as it had always done for his people since the first sunrise in the West. Erestor leaned back into his armchair with a small sigh of contentment, not even noticing that his wounds once again protested against the sudden movement.

They sat there for a long time, looking at the rising sun and listening to the sounds of the slowly awakening town. A cock crowed vigorously some streets away, having apparently missed the sunrise and wanting to make up for his delay. The voices of men that were walking through the city to their workplaces filtered up to them through the open window, and somewhere in the distance there was the laughter of playing children.

Finally, when the sun had warmed his heart and body with her bright rays and some of the dark shadows that had been preying on his mind had dissipated, Erestor turned toward his silent friend. Glorfindel looked back at him without saying a word, his blue eyes serious and his hair shining like spun gold in the sunlight.

"Thank you, _mellon nín_."

He did not say more, nor would he have needed to. And Glorfindel, understanding all he was saying with these two words, smiled.  
**  
****  
****  
**  
****

It had been a little more than six days since he had carried his brother out of a courtyard that had been filled with enough corpses to make Dagorlad look like the site of a minor misunderstanding in comparison. It had been five and a half days since he had been dragged to the shore of the Mitheithel to find his little brother a hairbreadth away from death. And it had been exactly one day since he had first sworn that he would kill Legolas if he didn't start behaving like a sensible, reasonable person.

That might be too much to ask for, Elrohir admitted to himself. Legolas was very rarely behaving like a sensible, reasonable person, not even when he was hale and at full strength. When he was not, he was not only unreasonable, he was also annoying, exasperating and so pig-headed that it would make any self-respecting pig cry with aggravation.

Things being as they were, he was just one step away from doing that himself. The dark-haired elf leaned back into his chair and clenched his fingers into tight fists. If he didn't, he just might use them to strangle this annoying excuse for a wood-elf. It was, of course, possible that you actually could strangle someone with a closed fist, and, right now, he was disconcertingly willing to try.

The object of his deliberations was sitting in the bed in front of him, propped up by what looked like every single pillow between here and Northern Gondor. Without the pillows, he most decidedly wouldn't have managed to keep upright, that was something Elrohir knew very well. Even though he had only developed a minor infection – which was, considering what the other elf had been through before his father had been able to reach his side, a true miracle – he was still far too weak to leave his bed or in fact stay awake longer than a few hours at a time. He wasn't as deathly pale as before now, but still white-faced enough to be confused with a slightly more lively-looking wraith.

He was, however, well enough to think that he was just fine, and strong enough to drive all of them to the brink of madness with his insistent assurances of the same. Even Celylith, who seemed to be blessed with a supernatural amount of patience when his prince was concerned, was beginning to show the first clear signs of heavy exasperation. The silver-haired elf had, in fact, seized this opportunity to leave Legolas' side for a while "to get some fresh air". Elrohir, who had known him long enough now, was rather certain that the other elf wasn't overly interested in air of any kind, and if he hadn't been so preoccupied with so many things, he might actually have begun to become suspicious.

The only times when Celylith became so shifty and devious was when he had to take care of one of his "innocent, perfect little creatures" that most normal people would rather call "hairy, horrible, dangerous monsters". But … no, it couldn't be, Elrohir tried to convince himself, rather frantically. Celylith hadn't had the chance to pick up another hideous creature in need of protection and sympathy. It just wasn't possible, and he refused to think otherwise until irrefutable proof was presented to him. And even then he was planning to be incredulous and refuse to acknowledge reality as long as possible.

The occupant of the bed was still staring at him with a rebellious look that didn't look all that impressive because of the paleness of his skin and the lines that exhaustion and fear had left in his smooth features. There was a half-healed abrasion on his forehead that was surrounded by a number of yellowish bruises and there were white bandages encircling his throat, his midsection and his left arm. The un-bandaged right arm and upper part of the torso were covered with fading bruises, cut and burns. All in all, he looked – as he himself would have said – _only slightly_ worse for wear.

Elrohir shook his head in disapproval and narrowed his eyes at his friend, realising that the blond elf was still waiting for an answer to his question.  
"No."

Legolas didn't look overly impressed.  
"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes! And there is no need to shout!"

"I am not shouting!" Elrohir took another deep breath, realising that he had, in fact, just shouted. Judging by the smug look on Legolas' face, the prince was aware of that, too. "Very well, I might have been shouting. But that is your fault!"

Legolas arched an eyebrow in a way that would have sent any elf who knew King Thranduil running for cover and/or caused him to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. Elrohir, however, as the son of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían and the grandson of the Lord and the Lady of the Golden Wood, merely returned the younger elf's look full of incredulity and anger and even smiled at him in a way that awoke in Legolas the exact same feelings Elrohir had been contemplating earlier.

"I will say it only one more time, Legolas. You are not well enough to get up yet. Estel can hardly remember what his name is, let alone what is going on around him. He is not alone; Elladan is with him. You are not alone; Celylith is with you, or rather he will be once he has overcome his urge to kill you. Loyal as he is, it should take only a few minutes. There is no – and I repeat, _no_ – reason why you would _have_ to go and see him."

"Forgive me for saying so, Elrohir, but I know you. You would tell me that the sky is green if you would feel that it would keep me in this bed."

"I would, if I had any hope that you would believe it," Elrohir admitted evenly. "But I ask you: Have I ever lied to you concerning Estel's condition? I thought you knew me better than that, Legolas."

Legolas had the good grace to look slightly shame-faced.  
"Elrohir, I…"

"You know how much I treasure our friendship, and what I would do and have done for it. You know that I love Estel as I would love my brother by blood, that I love him as much as I love Arwen. You know that I would not deceive you on something that is as important as this. You know that I would never lie about anything that concerns my little brother's health. Or," he went on somewhat darkly, "I always thought you knew that."

"You do not fight fair, son of Elrond," Legolas said quietly, blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on Elrohir's face. "You know that I did not mean to insinuate such a thing. You know that I feel the same, and that I would never accuse you of lying to me. Or," he added, a small twinkle of mirth in his eyes, "I always thought you knew that."

"Not bad." Elrohir nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Not bad. Forgive me, _ mellon nín_. I overreacted. I have not found enough rest for some time now, and lack of sleep and too many worries make me irritable and short-tempered."

"What do you mean, 'lack of sleep and too many worries'?" Legolas asked under his breath.

Elrohir shot him a _look_ that would have made his father proud, but Legolas narrowly avoided it, having found a sudden interest in the drapes that half-covered the open windows and that were moving in the morning breeze. Even despite their light-hearted bantering, the wood-elf's face was too serious, too thin and too pale. He was looking better and was improving daily, but, frankly, that just showed how badly off he had been when he had been brought here.

And it was no wonder, the twin decided inwardly, still studying his friend. Ever since Legolas had woken up about five days ago, he had insisted on being allowed to see Aragorn. The prince's repertoire of scheming, bribing, attempts at hiding and escaping and wild, unlikely stories about his physical well-being was impressive indeed, but Rivendell's healers were more than accustomed to this and had not been fooled for even a second. Legolas was still too weak to do anything without assistance, and right now, with Estel out of the picture, there was no one who would aid him. The twins agreed with their father in this matter, everybody else knew better than to incur Lord Elrond's wrath, and Celylith was still too shaken by his prince's near-death to do anything that might set back his recovery. Elrohir was quite sure that the silver-haired elf had heard his fair amount of attempted bribery and threats on this subject, but he had remained firm, something on which he had to congratulate him later.

Elrohir shuddered openly, remembering how Legolas had looked when he had reached his side in the courtyard. The stubborn wood-elf's life had been hanging by a threat for long days, something that could not be brushed aside as Legolas apparently wanted to do now. When he had woken up later in Aberon, almost delirious with pain and fear, Elrohir had been very sure that he was seeing his friend alive for the last time…

_"Hold him!"_

Elrohir did not know who was shouting that order, nor did he care. There was an urgency in the voice that was impossible to refuse, and so he found himself obeying and grasping a flailing limb that would almost have knocked his nose right into his brain and held onto it for dear life. The limb turned out to be an arm, a right arm by the looks of it, and Elrohir couldn't help but note that only Legolas would manage to almost brain him mere seconds after he had entered the room.

The wood-elf wasn't doing it on purpose, mind you, but that only made it all the more impressive, at least in his opinion.

"What is going on?" he demanded to know while he was trying to wrestle his friend back onto the mattress without hurting him. "Is he worsening?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see how Celylith stiffened unconsciously. The silver-haired elf was trying to press Legolas down as well, but his job was considerably harder, considering that most of the left side of the other elf's body was bandaged. The largest bandage, the one encircling his stomach, was already beginning to show the telltale signs of fresh bleeding. New determination, fuelled by fear, went through him, and the twin once again made a grab for the blond elf's upper arm and pressed him down as firmly as he dared.

"Not precisely," the healer in charge answered absent-mindedly. His distraction was understandable; the harried-looking elf was right now simultaneously mixing a potion and trying to avoid Legolas' left leg. Somehow the limb had escaped the grasp that one of the younger healers had had on it, and was right now rather firmly determined to try and break a few of the master healer's ribs. If limbs decided such things independently, that was.

"He is delusional," the dark-haired healer went on. "The fever is spiking again. It is getting better, though. His temperature isn't quite as high anymore, and he is already settling down."

About that the other healer was right, Elrohir decided. Legolas was beginning to settle down, but in his opinion only because his strength was beginning to give out. The other elf was looking so pale and … frail that he couldn't help but fear that, one moment very soon, he would not_ settle down, and that he would have to watch his friend die without him being able to do anything about it. The twin ground his teeth and slowly relaxed his grip as the prince's body collapsed back onto the bed. He was already more or less watching his little brother die, he would not allow Legolas to do the same!_

_"Listen to me, you thick-headed, thoroughly annoying wood-elf," he began softly, not letting go of Legolas' arm just yet. The younger elf had stopped fighting them, but he kept up the contact, unreasonably afraid that Legolas would still decide to leave them if he let go. "I will not let you go just like this. You will have to come up with something far, far better to get rid of us, do you hear me?"_

Legolas showed no signs that he had heard him, of course not. He hadn't woken up since he had lost consciousness in Donrag, and Elrohir was beginning to fear that he would never wake up again. It was not unusual for an elf with such a wound to remain unconscious for long periods of time – even elven bodies had their limits – but the fever and the sheer gravity of the wound were taking their toll on the elven prince. Legolas was stubborn to a fault, yes, but his condition was precarious at best. The only thing that had kept him in this world for so long was his father's – and, to a smaller extent, also his and Elladan's – healing powers.

"I cannot lose both of you," he whispered, ignoring the other elves in the room. "Please, Legolas. Not even Ada_ knows if he will make it; I could not watch you follow him."_

_There was no reaction. Elrohir sighed and began to examine the blood-stained bandaged that wound around Legolas' middle. There was movement to his left, but he ignored it, too immersed in his own misery. There was one positive thing to be said right now, and that was that Elladan was almost back on his feet, but that was about it. Aragorn was so close to death that it was a miracle that he was still drawing breath, Legolas wasn't far behind, and Erestor was only slowly getting better. Aberon had been flooded and Tibron's nephew was dead, along with a large percentage of his hometown. Things were _not_ going well right now._

_"I am sorry," a voice next to him commented softly. Elrohir looked up to find himself face to face with Celylith. The wood-elf looked at him with serious dark-blue eyes, an expression of guilt and shame on his face. "I should have come to seen Estel sooner. I was just so…"_

"Do not blame yourself, my friend," Elrohir told him, giving him a weak smile. Celylith looked just as miserable as he felt. "My father wouldn't let you see him anyway."

To that, Celylith didn't answer for a long while and only absent-mindedly brushed some strands of hair away from Legolas' pale face. Finally he asked, his voice soft and emotionless,  
"Is he really doing so badly?"

Elrohir merely looked at him, and Celylith lowered his head. The silver-haired elf was pale and had dark circles under his eyes, looking as if only adrenaline and stubbornness were keeping him upright. Elrohir was fairly surely that the other elf hadn't slept at all in the past few days, and made a mental note to be there to catch him when that fact finally caught up with him and he collapsed where he stood.

The master healer had finished mixing his potion and was walking over to them, a cup held in one of his hands. It was filled to the rim with a dark liquid, one that looked quite familiar to Elrohir even though he could not identify it right now, and even while the twin was deciding that he was very happy that it wasn't him who would have to drink it, Legolas started moving yet again. This time, however, it wasn't an uncontrolled flailing of limbs. His head began to toss from side to side, the movement weak and almost undetectable.

Celylith must have been the first to catch it – only logical since he had been waiting for something like this for days – for he was already at Legolas' side, crouching down next to the bed and fixing its inhabitant with an intense, hopeful look.  
"Legolas? Can you hear me? Legolas!"

It took a while, but in the end the other elf's eyes drifted open, staring straight ahead and not focussing on anything. There was a glazed, cloudy look in them that Elrohir didn't like at all, and he could clearly see the underlying pain that Legolas did not have the strength to hide.

"Legolas?" Celylith tried again, open hope filling his voice. "Please, my friend. Say something."

The fair-haired elf's brow furrowed, and he obviously tried hard to get the other's face into focus. Confusion hung over him so thickly that Elrohir was half-tempted to try and grab it. A moment later he realised what he was thinking and frowned. Perhaps Celylith wasn't the only one who had not been sleeping enough, he decided.

"Ce'lith?" Legolas' voice was so soft that it was almost inaudible, and he looked so exhausted that Elrohir couldn't help but wonder wherefrom he had taken the strength to nearly break his nose only a few moments earlier. "… you?"

Celylith smiled, the sudden brightening of his features making him look less pale and harried. It even served to make the shadows in his eyes look a little less dark, but not much.  
"Of course it's me, Legolas. I told you I would not leave you."

It took several moments for the words to fully register in the other elf's mind.  
"Where…?"

"We are in Aberon," Elrohir chimed in, moving so that the elven prince would be able to see him without having to move his head. "We are safe, Legolas. You are safe. Glorfindel found Erestor alive and Acalith has been stopped. Everything is over."

Legolas frowned again, clearly not even recognising the dark-haired elf. Whether he actually noticed that there was someone missing in that enumeration or whether it just came to his mind like this, Elrohir didn't know, but Legolas actually managed to summon up enough energy to turn his head a little and gave Celylith a surprisingly firm look.  
"Estel?"

"He … he is here as well," Celylith answered, not managing to hide the uncertainty in his voice. "You can see him when you are better."

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say.  
"No … now…" Legolas protested, showing all the signs of somebody who is planning on trying to push himself into an upright position. "Need … see…"

"You are not going anywhere, mellon nín_," Elrohir told him firmly, doing his best to get his worry under control. Legolas was only half-hearing what they were telling him, and that empty, weary look in his eyes was nothing he had ever wanted to see in the eyes of a friend. "You will rest and get better, and will let us worry about everything for a while."_

_"No," Legolas protested again. "Need … find him, need…"_

This time, he actually managed to lift himself up about two or three inches. The reaction was immediate. From one second to the next, Legolas' face lost all its remaining colour, and a choked scream of pain escaped him. Eyes wide with pain, the wood-elf collapsed back onto the bed, the movement causing a new wave of pain to stab through his already more than hurting body.

Elrohir wasn't even thinking, his instincts taking over. Grasping Legolas' arm again, he turned to the master healer who had been standing behind them, the cup with the potion still in his hands.  
"If that," he began, restraining Legolas as best as he could without causing him any further pain, "If that contains some anaesthetic herbs, now might be the time to give it to him."

The other elf didn't have to be told twice. With the combined efforts of the healer, Elrohir and Celylith, they managed to press Legolas back down onto the mattress and slowly and carefully administer the potion. They had to be very careful indeed because they were afraid that the liquid might choke him; the prince did not know what was going on around him, too blinded was he by pain and fear for his friend. They didn't know if he perceived them to be the enemy or if he just lashed out against them because the pain became too much and they were the closest thing there was, but they had quite a hard time avoiding the – admittedly weak – blows that the delirious elf directed at them. In the end, however, Legolas' struggles died down as the potion took effect and his strength gave out.

When he was sure that Legolas was unconscious once more, Elrohir carefully released him from his hold and straightened up. He traded a quick look with Celylith, and the profound misery he saw in the wood-elf's eyes was almost enough to cause him to hug him right where he stood.

"He is getting better," he stated emotionlessly, looking at the master healer who was setting down the now empty cup on a small stool. "Isn't he."

The dark-haired elf looked up, his eyes full of guilt and helplessness, and turned away.

"Elrohir?" Legolas' voice cut through his thoughts for the second time this day, and Elrohir shook himself, more than glad to be brought out of this particular memory.

"Are you all right?" the elven prince went on, looking at the older elf with concern.

"You are asking me?" Elrohir countered, trying hard to sound incredulous. "_I_ am not the one lying in a bed unable to leave it, looking as if a mountain had fallen on top of me!"

"I do not look as if a mountain had fallen on top of me…"

"Oh yes, you do."

"…it was merely a small hill," Legolas went on, ignoring the other elf with a proficiency that was quite impressive for someone who didn't have siblings. "And you are the person who is sitting here with a far-away expression on his face, looking as if you had just watched someone die."

"I almost did," the dark-haired elf said softly. "Twice in less than a week. First Estel, and then you. And in between, Erestor almost decided to join you."

"We are on the mend now, Elrohir. Lord Erestor is better, or that is what Lord Glorfindel has been telling me. I am completely fine," he ignored the incredulous snort that Elrohir didn't even try to hold back, "and if you would but allow me to see Estel and make sure that the same can be said about him, I could add him to this list."

"You are most definitely not fine, Legolas," Elrohir told him, eyes narrowing in a way that looked deadly serious. "Neither is Erestor, even though he is determined to prove everybody otherwise. He is becoming more and more like Glorfindel, which is one of the scariest ideas I have ever been forced to face." Legolas opened his mouth, most likely to protest some more, but Elrohir cut him off before he had even said a word. "No, Legolas. You almost died. I watched you almost die, and so did Celylith. Believe me if I tell you that there is absolutely no way that either of us is going to allow you to put a single foot out of this bed." He frowned slightly. "Not that it would make much of a difference if we actually did. You would fall flat on your face before you'd even taken a single step."

Seeing that reason – or his interpretation of the term – would not avail him here, Legolas smoothly changed tactics. He hadn't been instructed by the finest warriors of Mirkwood for nothing, after all.  
"Please, Elrohir. I have to see him. I thought him to be dead, we all did. It is a miracle that he is still alive."

"Yes." Elrohir nodded. "It is. But that doesn't change the fact that you are too weak to see him, and that he would hardly know that you are there."

Legolas narrowed his eyes.  
"Is there any chance at all that I can win this argument?"

"Not the slightest."

With a disgruntled, noncommittal sound, the elven prince allowed himself to fall back into the mountain of pillows at his back. Just what kind of wrong movement he had made in the process, Elrohir did not know, but suddenly the fair-haired elf's face turned so white that it almost blended together with the crisp white sheets. A groan was all that escaped Legolas' lips through firmly gritted teeth, and the un-bandaged hand clenched into a tight fist around a handful of sheets and blankets.

Elrohir was at his side in a heartbeat, concerned eyes taking in his friend's pallor and tightly closed eyes before they came to rest on the white bandage wrapped around his stomach. If Legolas had torn his stitches, his father would have his hide. His, mind you, not Legolas'.

"Legolas? Are you all right?" It was a stupid question, he realised that even while he was speaking it. Noting that the other elf hadn't moved or acknowledged his question in any other way, he quickly came to a decision. "I will get one of the healers."

"No." That was enough to bring Legolas out of his silence, no matter how bad the pain. "No healers."

Elrohir could understand his friend's reluctance – he would feel the same if he had spent the last few days being poked, prodded and drugged – but that didn't mean that he also thought it a wise course of action.  
"Legolas, it would be better if they checked on the wound. You could also use some sleep, and I am sure that that could be combined with a little something for the pain."

"They will check on the wound anyway in a few hours, when they peel off the bandages with what feels like half of my remaining skin," Legolas told him, gasping slightly as he tried to get his breathing back under control. "And I do not want any more drugs."

Thinking about his father's tea and his less than palatable medicines, Elrohir had to admit that he could see the other elf's point.  
"Very well then." He inclined his head slightly. "No more drugs, and no healers. Should I go and get Celylith for you? I have an appointment with Isál in a few moments and will have to leave you, but I'm sure that Celylith is not far."

"Please." Legolas nodded. "I will be going out of my mind with boredom otherwise. There is nothing to read here!"

"You cannot expect a town of this size to have a public library." Elrohir smiled at him. "And even if they had one, I doubt that they would have scrolls in Sindarin or Quenya."

"You're right," Legolas admitted wryly. "That would be a bit too much to ask for." He turned serious again in a second, a thought striking him. "If you see Tibron, would you tell him that I would be happy and honoured if he came to visit me? I would like to talk to him, and offer him my thanks and condolences. It is woefully inadequate for what he, his son and his nephew have done for all of us and for Aragorn in particular, but it is all I _can_ offer him."

"I will tell him," Elrohir assured him. He knew how deeply Torel's death had affected the younger elf; he himself had only seen the boy a few times, but Legolas had owed him his life. "And he will come, I am sure about it."

Legolas only nodded, all mirth from earlier having disappeared from his face and making him look even paler and weaker. With another quick look at all the bandages Elrohir turned around and walked over to the door.  
"I will be back," he told the fair-haired elf, pausing at the door and looking back at him. "I should be free this afternoon. I'll bring Elladan, too."

"Do that," Legolas said, leaning back into the pillows and closing his eyes once more. "It pains me to say it, but the two of you are preferable to that junior healer that emits so much optimism that I will have to strangle him if he doesn't stop it."

Deciding to take the comment as a compliment, Elrohir only raised a dark eyebrow and left the room. Closing the door softly behind him, he turned and almost collided with his twin who was walking down the corridor, a preoccupied expression on his face. Elrohir took a moment to look his brother up and down – Elladan insisted that he was fine and the wound was well on its way to healing completely, but he knew his dear twin. Elladan would still insist that he was fine when he had a sword sticking out of his forehead.

"Is there a problem with Estel?" he asked as a manner of greeting, worry instantly manifesting itself. "Did _ada_ send you to…"

"No," Elladan interrupted him quickly. He, too, knew his brother very well, and knew that Elrohir would fly into one of his worried fits if he wasn't stopped. "There has been no change. His fever is a bit down."

Elrohir released a breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding.  
"Oh. Good."

"_Ada_ is with him now," Elladan went on, a worried frown once again settling over his features. "He is still not talking, _gwanur_. I haven't heard more than 'yes' and 'no' from him."

"He's still weak," Elrohir countered. "He has only really woken up a few days ago. Most of the time he's half-asleep, or half-drugged, or both. And it's for the best."

"Yes." Elladan nodded without hesitation. "Yes, it is. But he is aware enough to say something more than that. When Legolas woke up, he wouldn't be quiet. Estel hasn't been quiet in the past, Elrohir, and you know that."

Elrohir did know that. Neither Aragorn nor Legolas was what one would call a good patient, and it had always been a challenge to get them to take enough rest and to keep them in their beds. To be as quiet and uncommunicative as Estel was at the moment was just not normal, and more than enough reason to worry.

"He asked for Torel after he woke up," he commented softly. "And _ada_ told him the truth."

"He had to. Estel would never have believed a lie."

"I know." Elrohir nodded slightly. "It has hit him hard, though. He blames himself for the boy's death."

The two looked at each other, a rare expression of helplessness in their eyes. In the end Elladan smiled wanly and reached out to slip an arm around his twin's shoulders.  
"Let _ada_ try his luck now. Elbereth Gilthoniel knows that we have tried to get him to talk about it. I'll walk you to the stables. I am sure Isál is already waiting for you."

"He probably is," Elrohir admitted, allowing his twin to take his thoughts off his worries. "He can't wait to get out of this city, and is working hard to organise everything." They walked down the corridor into the direction of the stairs, and just when they had reached them, he added, "You have to help me find Celylith, though. I don't want to leave Legolas alone for too long. That reckless wood-elf would seize the chance to try and get up. Right now, he is too exhausted, but wait half an hour and…"

"Celylith," Elladan all but snorted. "You know, if I didn't know better, I would say that he has found another 'adorable little creature' in need of protection."

Elrohir stopped in mid-motion.  
"Why are you saying that?" A horrified expression began to spread over his face. "Did you see something? Did he tell you something? What is it this time? A warg? A _crebain_ hatchling? A black squirrel?"

"I wouldn't mind the squirrel," Elladan commented thoughtfully. "I've always liked them."

"Not the black Mirkwood variety." Elrohir shook his head. "No one likes them, not even other squirrels. They are mean."

Elladan arched an eyebrow.  
"'Mean'?"

Elrohir's reply was lost when they reached the ground floor, and silence once again descended over the empty hallway. It was just what Elrond was hearing in the room further down the corridor, and for once he was not thankful for it. Usually Aragorn was more than happy to talk. That was the thing he missed most when the young man was away from home: The long conversations they had, the ones where they talked about everything and nothing, often long into the night.

Usually it was not a problem to get his son to talk, no. Now, however, it was very much like hitting a solid stone wall. When Estel was awake, he simply ignored those in the room with him, and the same went for any attempt that was made to bring him out of his silent isolation. The young ranger was doing as he was told for most of the time, swallowing medicines automatically and allowing Elrond and the other healers to change his bandages without protest, but apart from a few monosyllabic words he barely spoke.

Elrond gave the occupant of the bed next to him a not-so-furtive glance. Aragorn was lying on his back, as motionless and still as a carved statue. He was still far too pale and the fever had not let go of him yet, but at least the telltale red specks of colour high on his cheekbones had disappeared. With the numerous bandages adorning his body and the still colourful bruises that could be seen on his face and un-bandaged torso, he was quite a pitiful sight indeed, even though the half-elf was very sure that the man would not have appreciated the sentiment. The ranger was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere to the left of one of the ceiling's many wooden beams.

"You have to eat," Elrond finally said to break the silence. He was feeling strangely helpless, and could now understand the look Elladan had given him when he had left the room all the better. To see Aragorn so listless was unsettling, to say the least. "It is getting cold," he went on, gesturing at a bowl of broth that was sitting on one of the nightstands that surrounded the bed. There were three others, and all of them were covered with healing utensils. "It will do you good."

There was no answer. Elrond hadn't expected anything else. The half-elven healer sighed and shifted forward in his chair until only a few inches separated him from the bed. Ever since he had told his human son what had happened to Torel, he had become completely listless and uninterested in anything that was going on around him. He had shown short spells of involvement when he had been told how Erestor and Legolas were doing and when he had seen the twins and Glorfindel, but that was about it.

Elrond knew how hard the death of Tibron's nephew was for his son. There were only two men who had survived the fight by the docks, a mercenary that was right now sitting in the town's prison and one of Tibron's men who had been found more than a day after the dams had burst. Neither of the two had been able to shed much light on what had happened after the dam had been breached, but at least Tibron's man could remember that Torel had been right next to Aragorn when it had happened. Elrond had enough imagination to guess what could have happened.

He hadn't tried to breach the subject before now, afraid that he might set back his human son's recovery – Aragorn was still so weak that that could happen very easily. Now, however, it seemed to him that that tactic wasn't working very well, either. Upsetting the ranger just might be the better choice, at least if it caused him to talk about what had happened.

Elrond hesitated, unsure, but after a quick look at his son's expressionless, blank eyes he quickly made his decision. This could not be allowed to go on.

"Estel," he finally began carefully, studying the young man's face, "I know that you will not talk to me. I have been trying to make you do that for the past few days. But you can _listen_ to me, or so I hope."

He stopped for a moment, hoping to see a sign that Aragorn was listening. There was none. With an inward sigh, he tried again.

"I do not know what happened at the dam, _ion nín_. I do not know because you will not tell me." There was something in the grey eyes now, a small flicker of unrest or guilt. "I will not press you on this. You will tell me when you are ready. But you _must_ know that you are not responsible for what happened."

Still no answer. Elrond was not willing to give up just yet, however. He been dealing for millennia with a taciturn Glorfindel, who could give your average rock a run for its money when it came to being uncommunicative and reticent when he put his mind to it.

"If you hadn't warned Tibron, this town would not be standing now," he went on, sincerely hoping that his son would see reason. It was the truth, after all. "Instead of the less than half a dozen breaches we had to deal with, the entire city would have been flooded. You did what you could, and what you achieved was already more than a miracle. Torel's death is tragic. He did the right thing, though; he did what he believed was right. He stood up against his own father in order to do so. There is nothing more honourable than that."

Elrond wasn't expecting an answer, and so he was honestly surprised when Aragorn's voice reached his ear, sounding rough and weary beyond measure.  
"How many?"

"How many what, Estel?" Elrond asked cautiously.

"How many dead?" Aragorn asked, slowly turning his head to look at his father. A cough found its way over his lips, causing his face to contort in pain, but the man quickly suppressed it, never looking away from the elf. "How many died?"

Elrond closed his eyes, against the pain in the young man's voice and the vision that came to him unbidden, the vision of the long rows of still, cold bodies he had seen in the town hall.

"Too many," he admitted, slowly opening his eyes again. "Just as always, too many."

He fell silent for a moment, helplessly watching how the dark shadows in the man's eyes intensified once again, and how the young man wordlessly turned his gaze back to the ceiling. His heart aching in sympathy, he reached out with his left hand, cupping Aragorn's face and gently turning it around towards him.

"You could not have saved all of them, my son."

The look that Aragorn directed at him was so full of pain and guilt and shame that he would almost have closed his eyes. When he spoke, the same emotions could be heard in his voice, coupled with an all-encompassing weariness.  
"No. But I could have saved him."

The young ranger broke the eye contact and turned his head to the wall, and would not speak again.

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_mellon nín - my friend  
ion nín - my son  
ada - father (daddy)  
gwanur - (twin) brother  
crebain - the large, crow-like, intelligent birds that were used as spies by Saruman during the War of the Ring  
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Well, I TOLD you that it wasn't the happiest chapter ever written! Could have been worse, though - Celylith could have found a black squirrel! •g• Ah well, it's getting a bit more cheerful in the next - and last - chapter, I promise. Don't worry about Aragorn's birthday present, either, it's going to be in there, together with Celylith's adorable little bat. In the meantime, reviews keep me happy and writing and feed my alter ego. Really. •g• So: Review? Yes, please!**

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**Additional A/N:**

**My apologies to Vanni, Lilandriel (you are logged in now, but you don't have an email address listed on your bio page), Kalmiel (same thing) and Crystal-Rose15 (again the same thing), to whose review I cannot reply since I don't have the email address. I am not using FF-net's review reply system; I am sending a group email instead. So, don't forget to either log in or tell me your email address when you review! Thanks a lot! **


	39. The End of Darkness

**Disclaimer: **For full disclaimer, please see chapter 1.

**A/N: **

Well, this took me a bit longer than I had thought. For one, because the characters couldn't shut up again - I stopped counting at 45 pages. It was just becoming too depressive. I mean, I understand that they want to have some fun, too, especially now that no one is being tortured anymore, but too much is too much. •g•

The other reason is that chaos reigns here at the moment. I am not kidding you, it does. All my flatmates have moved out, people came to visit me, my mother too, we had to organise a huge good-bye/birthday party (I know, poor us •g•), oh, and yes, I had all my exams and had to write two big papers. But it paid off: I actually passed all my exams, even Historia de España, which is a major miracle. Now it is all over, and I can relax for a bit - till the next visitors get here. So, sorry for the delay (I hope you all found the note I left on my profile page?), but now it's finally here, the LAST CHAPTER.

That brings me to the next question: Will there be a sequel? Right now, I would say 'Yes, definitely'. •myriad of elves and rangers moan• Come on, guys, it's not THAT bad! Hmm, okay, perhaps it is, but that's beside the point. •g• So, the answer is yes, I am indeed planning a sequel, but it won't be here for a while. I am planning to write something with less than 30 chapters - stop laughing back there! I WILL manage it! •shakes fist• So, don't expect the next big story before October or so - I have to travel a lot and then find a flat, get everything organised for my university (coming back from Erasmus means another huge mountain of paperwork) and so on and so forth. It WILL get here though, don't worry, and this time I hope to update more frequently. It was really getting a bit ridiculous towards the end...

For more information about the upcoming story, read more after the chapter. Oh, and there is a bit of good news: There will be a short story before the next big one, as always a little story that I promised to somebody, this time to Jack. She has been very patient with me and I really have to write this. I am not completely sure about the name yet, but it's kind of a late birthday/Easter present and humourous story. I know, I am nervous myself! It will include Legolas, Aragorn and a by now stereotypical kidnapping and should be posted sometime in August, so keep an eye out for it!

So, here is that huge thing that pretends to be the last chapter. I have to say first that we won't get so much Aragorn-Legolas H/C about Torel's death - I chose a different solution, because I kind of have the feeling that the eternal Aragorn-Legolas-it's-not-your-fault talks are beginning to get a tiny bit stereotypical. And, strictly speaking, Legolas wasn't even there when Torel died (or during anything that led up to it), so if Aragorn won't talk to him, he doesn't even know what happened.  
Be that as it may, Elrond and Glorfindel have a discussion, we find out just who gets Aragorn out of that (metaphorically speaking) little black hole he has fallen into, the twins try to sell a Nazgûl a pink outfit ... uhm, I mean, try to talk to Aragorn and Legolas, everybody finds out the name of Celylith's adorable little bat, Aragorn gets a birthday present and they get back to Rivendell, much to the joy of Elvynd and a certain red-haired healer. And that's about it. •g•

Enjoy and review, please!

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Chapter 39  
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**Legolas was feeling exasperated. It was a feeling he had grown accustomed to lately, much to his chagrin. It was not only a most uncomfortable feeling, it was also beginning to give him a headache.

Actually, he went on inwardly, leaning back against the cold wall at his back, it was a feeling he had grown accustomed toa while ago, strangely enough around the same time he had met Aragorn. It was a strange coincidence indeed, and one he would very happily point out to the ranger in question – if he only could.

He couldn't, though, because Aragorn wouldn't talk to him. He hadn't talked to him or his father or his brothers, not about what had happened in Aberon and not about anything else. It had been almost ten days now since the fighting had stopped and a little more than nine days since Aragorn had been found, and he was still not talking about anything or to anybody. The first time he had been allowed to see the ranger, Aragorn had looked up, apparently making sure that he was all right and that his brothers hadn't been lying. Once satisfied that his friend was alive and (relatively speaking) well, he had fallen back into his passive, listless state.

One reason for this was surely that the young man was still far from well. While he himself and Lord Erestor were healing slowly but surely – elven healing abilities were a wonderful thing sometimes – Aragorn wasn't doing all that great. Lord Elrond had told him (after a lot of uncharacteristic attempts to change the topic) that the man would have been able to cope with the injuries he had contracted or with the illness that had taken a told of him with such force, but that the two combined had been very nearly enough to send the young ranger to the Halls of Mandos and into the company of his ancestors.

Legolas exhaled slowly, listening to the low murmur of voices (or rather, of a single voice) that filtered through the heavy oaken door to the right of him. It was gleaming slightly, as if it had been polished lately, and the elf wondered lazily if any of Tibron's servants were actually finding the time to clean here. Aberon was beginning to get back to normal, with the dams mostly repaired and the debris cleaned off the streets, but there was still a lot to be done. No, it was far more likely that it was a trick of the light; Tibron was a generous and caring host, but he surely had better things to do than have his servants polish doors.

Ten days had passed. It was so very hard to believe. Ten days since he had lost consciousness in the courtyard of Donrag, Celylith's face swimming into nothing before the darkness swallowed him whole. He hadn't been truly aware of what was going on around him for the first five days or so, and he was fully aware of the fact that he owed Lord Elrond yet another debt he could never repay. If it hadn't been for the half-elven healer, he would have died in Donrag, about that he was very sure. Even though his friends thought that he refused to admit to himself how close to death he had been, he knew it very well. He even had a vague memory of great, misty gates appearing before him out of the darkness that had enveloped him, even though he did not know if it had been a vision or if he had really heard Námo's voice welcoming him to his abode.

He did not really wish to contemplate it, either.

His unconscious state had been a good thing, too, at least partly; but still, he knew how deeply it would have affected the others and especially Celylith. He loved Celylith like he would have loved any brother of his, and the last thing he had ever wanted was cause his friend pain. And yet he had, he knew that without Celylith even having to say a single word about it. His friend would have panicked, he would have blamed himself and been half-petrified with pain and fear and dread. He would dearly like to take back the hurt he had caused him, and still he knew that it would probably not be the last time for either of them.

A good thing it had been because, lying unconsciously and feverishly in his bed, he hadn't been able to worry about Aragorn. The young man had only truly beginning to get better a few days ago, and before that it had been a very, very close thing. Lord Elrond had almost worked himself into the ground trying to save his human son's life. Legolas was firmly convinced that only the elf lord's skill, tenacity and unwillingness to give up had saved Aragorn's life.

But now things were different. The Valar knew that he was not fully well yet – it was what everybody kept telling him, so he suspected that there was some truth to it – but he was definitely healthy enough to worry about someone other than himself. And Aragorn just happened to be the most grateful subject.

"…there you are!" A voice exclaimed, sounding exasperated as well. It was very well possible that there was an epidemic going on, Legolas decided calmly. "My lord," the voice added, just late enough to convey that the honorific title was in no way connected to the way the voice's owner felt about him at the moment.

Legolas turned around, careful not to move too much in the process. The stitches that held a large percentage of his innards together (those were Lord Elrond's words, not his) protested fiercely against the movement, and he settled back against the wall, exhaling softly. Even ten days of more or less enforced bed rest had not been enough to build up his strength sufficiently to remain upright and conscious for much longer than an hour, and he had already left the half-hour mark far behind.

The elf who was striding towards him, an expression of long-suffering annoyance on his face that would have make Elu Thingol proud, was obviously feeling neither exhausted nor tired. The minor wounds he had contracted during the fighting had already healed without leaving a trace, and Celylith looked very hale and very annoyed. His eyes were positively gleaming (probably with anger), and silver hair was streaming after him in a way that would have made the most heroic hero jealous.

Legolas, who had not been instructed by the finest warriors Mirkwood had to offer for nothing, immediately decided that offence was the best defence he had at the moment. Actually, it was the _only_ defence he had at the moment.

"Yes." He nodded, as if he hadn't been told to stay in his room and rest. "I am here. And so are you, it seems. Is there any particular reason why you are yelling at me?"

Celylith's eyes narrowed slightly, and Legolas could almost hear him think something highly uncomplimentary. His friend was far too easy to read, he decided.  
"I am not yelling," the silver-haired elf told him in a forcedly calm tone of voice. Eyeing his prince in the way a mother bear would eye her cub (or maybe a warg would eye a tasty meal), he sat down next to him, perching on the edge of the wooden bench as if he expected to have to chase Legolas yet again. "I am merely stating the fact that you are here."

Legolas raised an eyebrow, amusement sparkling in his eyes.  
"I applaud your powers of observation."

Celylith's already narrowed eyes darkened, something that looked quite dangerous.  
"Do not try to mislead me, my friend. You are out of bed against the healers' orders, again, and you know it."

"They never said anything about 'staying in bed'. In fact, a bed wasn't even mentioned."

The silver-haired elf's glare would have frozen lava in mid-flow.  
"Not even you could confuse running around the house with 'resting'."

"Well…" Legolas began rather ineloquently.

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" Celylith asked, throwing his hands up in a thoroughly melodramatic gesture. "What have I ever done to you? Are you trying to drive me insane or is this another manifestation of your interpretation of the word 'amusing'?"

"Well," Legolas repeated, "you have to admit that it possesses some entertainment value."

Celylith closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. He then inwardly proceeded to enumerate all the reasons why he shouldn't kill the elf sitting next to him, right here, right now and with a smile on his lips.

"This tactic hasn't been working on me for the past four or five _yéni_, Legolas," he finally told his still smirking prince. "I won't go away just because you try and make me mad. I saw through that a long time ago. Now, why did you escape this time?"

Apparently, Celylith had also been instructed by the finest warriors Mirkwood had to offer. He should have know, really, since Celylith had been instructed with him.  
"Do I have to tell you?" Legolas asked and leaned his head against the wall. He might be able to read Celylith like an open book, but he was just as transparent to the silver-haired elf.

Celylith looked at him for a moment, annoyance and faint anger fading and being replaced by understanding. He smiled slightly, settling down onto the bench and trying to find a more comfortable position.  
"So he has not talked to you?"

"No," Legolas admitted. "He hasn't. He hasn't talked to anybody, not to me, not to the twins, not to Lord Elrond or anybody else. He just shuts us out."

"Perhaps he just needs a little bit more time," Celylith suggested. He didn't look or sound as if he was the least bit convinced. "It has only been…"

"Ten days." Legolas finished his sentence. "Ten days, Celylith. And still he just lies there and stares at the ceiling. I talked to Lord Elrond and he told me that that is far from normal. He has never before behaved like this; no matter what happened or how grave the injuries were."

Celylith shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to say, and was spared an answer when the door to Aragorn's room opened and Elladan came out, or rather stormed out in a remarkably quiet manner. The expression on his face was in stark contrast to that, though. He was grinding his teeth, and one could almost see the small bolts of lightning that were shooting out of his eyes.

Legolas merely raised an eyebrow, grim amusement shining in his eyes.  
"Good morning!"

Elladan whirled around to face him and gave him a credible version of the _look_.  
"Is it? Is it really?"

A small smile spread over Legolas' face before he could stop it.  
"Not talking to you either, is he?"

Elladan let out several very interesting curses that he rightfully should not even know.  
"I have tried everything. I have begged him, tried to bribe him, told him stories, asked him countless questions, just sat there waiting for him to acknowledge my presence and about a hundred things in between. I don't even know if he heard me."

"He is apparently not ready to talk yet," Celylith told the other two elves and moved a little bit to the side to make room for Elladan, who flopped down onto the bench with another rather vicious Quenya curse that the wood-elf had never before heard in his life. Carefully committing it to memory, he went on, "Why don't you just give him more time to come to terms with what has happened?"

"Because he is not," Elladan said curtly. "Coming to terms with it, I mean. This is setting back his recovery, Celylith. He is not interested in anything, not in getting up, not in reading, not in eating – nothing. He cannot get better like this, and if he doesn't build up his strength…"

"…he might suffer a relapse," Legolas completed the older elf's sentence. "Lord Elrond told me that the illness might be beaten for now, but that it might just as easily return."

"Not everybody is always ready to share their feelings." Celylith wasn't giving up. If Aragorn could have heard him, he would have been immensely grateful.

"Estel?" Elladan asked, a dark eyebrow arched so high that it almost disappeared into his hair. "You can say what you want about him," he paused a moment, probably giving the other two elves ample time to realise that, contrary to his words, he would not suffer his little brother to be insulted in his presence, "but he isn't emotionally closed-off."

"I wouldn't call it 'emotionally closed-off'," Celylith protested, a little more vehemently than he had wanted to. He wasn't someone to readily talk about his feeling with other people either. "Look at Lord Glorfindel. He doesn't enjoy that kind of thing either."

Elladan's other eyebrow rose to join the first.  
"Glorfindel," he began slowly, as if talking to an idiot, "can hardly be a model for anything. He died once, and that would change most people. Besides, he killed a balrog, and that has given him delusions of grandeur. People with delusions of grandeur don't tend to talk about their feelings, unless they're cornered, tied up or otherwise forced."

"Besides," Legolas interjected, "look what happened the last time that he didn't want to talk about what was bothering him."

Celylith and Elladan winced more or less openly, and the silver-haired elf inclined his head in surrender. He knew which incident Legolas was referring to: A few years ago Lord Glorfindel had had some sort of miscommunication with Lord Elrond, and had promptly been injured gravely during an orc attack when he had ridden to escape his friend's questions. Lord Elrond was still maintaining that none of this would have happened if the other elf lord had just talked to him like a sensible being, while Lord Glorfindel was of the firm and often-voiced opinion that it had been nothing but a coincidence.

While Celylith found himself agreeing with Lord Glorfindel, he knew better than to voice his opinion. Many had found out the hard way that disagreeing with Elladan about something that concerned the health or safety of his family was a stupid and potentially painful thing.

"And it's not only that," the twin went on. "He's not only refusing to talk about what happened. He blames himself, for what happened in this town, and for Torel's death in particular. Nothing anybody said has convinced him otherwise."

"I don't know if anything can," Legolas said glumly. "He was there with the boy when the dam broke, that much we know. Who knows what happened after Aragorn sent Tibron's son away? No one is left alive to tell us."

A sudden movement to his left made him turn his head, and if he had been only a bit quicker, he would have seen the expression on Celylith's face that very clearly stated that he had just been granted a great revelation. The silver-haired elf sat up straighter, wonder on his face, before he shot to his feet.

"Of course! By Oromë's horn, it could actually work!"

And then he was gone, rushing down the corridor in a whirlwind of excitement and long silver hair. Elladan looked after him for a moment before he turned to Legolas, both his eyebrows arching even higher, if such a thing was even possible.  
"He is a strange one, isn't he?"

"You should have seen him when we were younger," Legolas said with a calm nod, as if one of his best friends suddenly rushing off to Valar-knew-where amidst mysterious words was a completely normal occurrence. "Speaking of which, is it just me or is there the possibility that he just might have found … something? Probably something big, hairy, ugly, dangerous and malicious?"

"Just why did you have to go and say that?" Elladan groaned, covering his eyes with his forearm. "Now we're doomed."

"I beg your pardon?"

Elladan sighed, sounding very much like someone who was seeing his doom fast approaching.  
"Elrohir and I have been suspecting something like this for some time. He is searching the stables right now, trying to find out if our suspicions are correct or not. But if you, too, believe that he might have found another one of his 'sweet, innocent creatures', then it truly must be so. And then we're doomed, either because his new pet is going to kill all of us or because your father will declare war on Imladris because we killed one of his captains."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Legolas shook his head reassuringly. "My father hates spiders. I do not use that word lightly; he _hates_ them. If I tell him just why we had so many spider attacks last autumn, he just might give you a medal instead of declaring war."

"That would be something." Elladan grinned. A thought seemed to strike him, and the grin widened. "Generations of Noldorin ancestors would be scandalised."

"And generations of Sindarin ancestors would be at least slightly impressed," Legolas retorted. "That might cause somewhat of a problem." His brow creased slightly. "I wouldn't tell Fëanor, though, if I were you."

"Fëanor isn't a direct ancestor," Elladan protested in a tone of voice that quite clearly said that he had said that far too often already. "And I wouldn't be too sure about my Sindarin ancestors either. I don't think my grandfather would be too impressed. He and your father never really got along, I think."

Legolas grimaced slightly when he remembered the not very hidden contemptuous sparkle in his father's eyes whenever the conversation turned to the Lord of Lórien. About the other elf lord's wife, his father had never lost a bad word (which, considering his opinion about the vast majority of the Lords of the Noldor, was rather surprising), but that only proved that even King Thranduil of Mirkwood had as much respect for and mild fear of Lady Galadriel as the rest of Middle-earth.

"I cannot deny that," he finally said with a shrug. "I never asked what passed between them, and I don't really think I want to know."

Elladan could only agree with that. The fewest elf lords allowed petty rivalries or arguments to come between them; if they nursed a grudge, something truly serious must have happened between them at one point or other. Abandoning your kin or slaughtering your fellow elves were good examples for that.

Before he could truly think about what might have happened between the two fair-haired elf lords, Celylith returned, looking as if he was very pleased with himself. Elladan was already opening his mouth to ask him just why he was looking this smug when two more people appeared on the landing of the stairs, apparently having followed the wood-elf. It was Tibron, looking more rested than the last time he had seen him but still just as grief-filled, and Vonar, who still hadn't lost that shocked, disbelieving expression that fairly screamed that he wished that all that had happened lately had been nothing but a dream.

Elladan stood to his feet immediately to greet them, and only just managed to press Legolas back down when the fair-haired elf began to mirror his movements. Legolas gave him a dark look but consented, the pain in his arm and stomach once again convincing him that getting up might indeed by a bad idea. A moment later Celylith had reached their side, still looking like the proverbial cat that had eaten the equally proverbial bird, and the elven prince narrowed his eyes at his friend, confusion in the silver-blue depths.

"Just what is the meaning of this, Celylith?" he demanded to know in low Sindarin. "What are you doing?"

"We have been addressing this in the wrong way, my lord," Celylith told him. "We did not see it, because we are too close to Estel. That is also why you especially did not see it; you two, just like Elrohir and Lord Elrond, are just too worried about him. He is my friend whom I treasure dearly, but I do not have the same connection with him as you do."

Elladan and Legolas exchanged a quick look.  
"You are not making any sense, Celylith," Elladan told the wood-elf for the both of them.

Celylith shook his head, apparently not disturbed by their lack of enthusiasm.

"You are trying too hard to help him, Elladan. All of you, your father, your brother, Lord Glorfindel, Isál, Legolas. You try to make him talk about what happened, try to help him through it, but you do not see one thing: You cannot. None of us can help him. We were, as you said, not there. We were not there when he and the two young ones were ambushed by Hurag's men, we were not there when they fought them off, we were not there when he had to make the choice to send one of them back to warn the council. We weren't," he paused a moment and turned to look at Tibron's wide-eyed son, "but Vonar was."

Elladan and Legolas turned their heads to look at Vonar, and the young man gulped visibly. After more than a week of encountering elves in his home on a daily basis and literally everywhere, he was beginning to get used to the experience. But still, no amount of practice could prepare you for the force of an inquisitive dual elven stare, especially if the elves staring at you were the sons of the Lords Elrond and Thranduil.

"I … I want to help," the young man finally said, licking his lips nervously. He hadn't understood a single word the three elves had said, but he had recognised his name and was intelligent enough to figure out what the subject of their conversation had been. He turned to Elladan, wide eyes becoming even wider and more earnest. "I … we – my family and the entire town, we owe a lot to Strider. Your friend said I might be able to help him. I would like to try, if you will let me."

"He is well enough to receive visitors, at least for a short time," Legolas said expressionlessly, refusing to hope that this might actually work. "Should we ask your father?" he added, looking at Elladan.

"I don't see any reason why," the dark-haired elf said. "It can hardly make things any worse."

"Then we would like to try," Tibron said, his voice firm, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "As my son said, we owe Strider a great debt. We did not want to disturb him until now, but if you think we could help…"

Elladan inclined his head and smiled at the two humans in front of him.  
"We appreciate your concern. I know that you are busy, Master Tibron, and I thank you for coming here on such short notice."

"I am very glad to get away from the council for a while." Tibron smiled at him. "They have mastered the high art of annoying me even in my own house! Besides, I only came to thank Strider and see him for a few moments. If your friend here is right, this is between him and Vonar, and I would but intrude."

"Still, I thank you," Elladan repeated. "Let us go, then."

He led the two men over to Aragorn's room and, after taking a deep breath, pushed the door open. The room was just like he had left it a short while ago: Healing utensils and more pots and bottles than he could count covered almost every accessible surface. The curtains were half-closed, allowing the soft morning light to filter through but keeping out the glare of the sun. There were no personal effects anywhere close to the bed, though, no books or scrolls or anything of the like, the absence marked and fitting the utter motionlessness of the bed's occupant.

He would buy Celylith a barrel of the finest Dorwinion wine if this idea of his actually worked, Elladan swore to himself fervently. It pained him to see his little brother thus, so quiet and still and disinterested in what was going on around him. All this had shaken the young man far more than he or anybody else could have predicted, and he – just like Elrohir and Legolas – was just about ready to do anything to cause him to come back to them.

Physically, he was probably looking worse than ever. Since his body had been so weakened and on the brink of giving up altogether for long days, the various bruises and cuts he had sustained were only now beginning to heal, giving him the multicoloured look of somebody who had just been stepped on by something big and extremely heavy. There wasn't a colour Elladan could think of that couldn't be seen on Aragorn's face and arms, a fact that was even more noticeable because of the white bandages and sheets.

"You have visitors, Estel," he said quietly, not expecting the young man to even turn his head to look at them.

He didn't. It was an expected reaction, but still more than a little bit vexing.

Elladan sighed inwardly.  
"I will be waiting outside," he told the two men, not being able to hide his tired, dejected expression. "If you have need of anything or if anything happens at all, call me."

With another long look at his young brother he turned around and left the room, softly closing the door behind him. Tibron looked after him for a moment before he turned his attention to the ranger lying motionlessly on the bed. Taking a step closer, he motioned his son to do the same and in the end pressed the boy into one of the empty armchairs next to the bed.

"I will not stay long," he began, looking firmly at the younger man. Strider wasn't looking at him, but he was very sure that the ranger was listening. "I have only come to thank you, Strider. What you did is something neither I nor our entire town can ever forget, nor can we repay you. Without you, most of us wouldn't be here today."

There was no visible reaction. Tibron, however, who was a father in addition to an innkeeper, was not prepared to give up this easily.

"We owe you and the elves a great debt, the greatest debt there is. I pray to the Gods that, one day, you will understand that. Until then, I want you to know that I will always be there if you have the need to talk. I consider you my honoured friend and guest whom I owe more than I have ever owed to anybody, and as long as I and my family live, there will always be a place for you in Aberon."

He turned to his son, quite clearly not expecting an answer.  
"I will be outside if you need me."

A moment later he was gone, leaving the two young men alone. Vonar stared after his father, curiously looking a lot like a rabbit that was being cornered by a couple of foxes. In the end, he slowly and almost reluctantly turned back to Aragorn, who was showing the first faint signs that he might be interested in what was going on around him. Vonar didn't know it, but Legolas and the twins would have given their right arms for it.

"I … I don't know what to say," Vonar finally began, trying not to sound as lost as he felt. "I don't know if there is anything I _can _say. I should have thought about this earlier, but the elf – the silver-haired one, the one that is always with your friend – said that I might be able to help you and so I came." He smiled faintly. "I guess Torel did rub off on me in the end."

This time, Aragorn actually turned his head to look at him. Vonar didn't even notice, so caught up was he in studying his own fingernails.

"When we left to find you and your friend after you had escaped from Donrag, I did not agree with him. He hadn't told me what it was all about; he had just dragged me out of the town to 'show me something'." The young man smiled again, the corners of his mouth quivering slightly. "He always acted as if he was my older brother. He was only two years older than me, and still he liked to pretend that he was old and wise and knew everything better. But that night I told him what I thought about his actions, about endangering all of us to search for two people who had brought us nothing but trouble and whom we didn't even know."

Vonar paused and raised his head, his brown eyes locking with the ranger's grey ones.

"I called him unreasonable, foolish and insane. I told him that there would be a heavy price to pay for his actions, and I was right."

"Vonar," Aragorn began, squeezing his eyes shut as if he couldn't stand looking at the other man. It was the first time that he had truly addressed somebody and hadn't just answered shortly to a question, but neither of them noticed. "I … I shouldn't have…"

"But he did not listen to me," the brown-haired youth went on, ignoring the other's words. "He never did. He was like that, always making decisions as quickly as they had to be made and then sticking to them till the bitter end. I am sure that, sooner or later, some minstrel will take up the tale, make a ballad out of it and sing it to whoever pays a coin or two. And all my cousin really was and what he thought and felt will be forgotten."

"I should have sent him back with you," Aragorn interrupted him. "You were there. I tried to, and yet he would not heed my words. And, to my shame, I have to admit that a part of me was glad about his stubborn refusal to leave. I would not have survived without his help, and now he lost his life for mine."

"Yes, he did." Vonar nodded gravely, tiredly. His expression was sad and weary beyond his years. "He was swept away by the flood, and all my uncle found was his lifeless body. You were swept away as well, and here you are, alive and well."

He fell silent for a moment, perhaps having realised that one could say a lot of things about the ranger's condition, but not that he was well.

"I hated you for a while," the boy finally admitted, looking steadily at the dark-haired ranger. If Elladan could have heard his words, he would have forgotten about the barrel of Dorwinion and would have tried to strangle Celylith instead. "That is why I did not try to see you. The first few days you were too ill to visit; my father tried to see you, but the elf lord would not permit it. But after that, I could have come to visit you. But I did not, because I did not think myself capable of seeing you without losing my composure. I did not wish to look at you, and only see a reminder of my cousin's death."

"I understand," Aragorn said softly, absolutely no expression on his face. "Perhaps I would react the same way. I know that I can never gain it, but I still ask you for forgiveness. Through my actions, through my failure, your cousin and so many other people of this town were taken from you. There is nothing I can do to excuse it or to make it right. All I can say is that I am so very, _very_ sorry."

Vonar looked at him, a frown creasing his forehead. In the end, the younger man began to smile. It was a weak, tiny thing, but it was real, and that alone was enough to astonish the ranger

"I do not think you understand, Strider." He shook his head. "I told you that I called Torel an idiot and a fool for aiding you. I told you that I told him that there would be a price to pay, a price that was heavier than any of us had thought. I told you that I dread the day when I will hear a minstrel sing about my cousin's death, turning it into a foolish act of heroism instead of calling it the tragedy it was."

Aragorn frowned as well, trying to interrupt him, but the younger man raised a hand and shook his head, surprising maturity on his face. Aragorn saw to his surprise that this was not the same wide-eyed boy he had met a few days ago, that these events had changed him profoundly and had caused him to turn into a very different person. And even though there was maturity now where there had been childlike enthusiasm before, Vonar had also lost something, more than anything else the hopeful innocence he had possessed before all this had happened.

"Please let me finish, Strider," the youth went on. "I told you all this. But what I did not tell you, what I _want_ to tell you, is that Torel made a choice. He chose to help you and your elven friend, he chose to come with you to investigate the dams, he chose to stay with you until the end. He chose all that, and by denying it and his decisions and accusing those who bear no fault except surviving we would dishonour him and us and all he died for."

"You are like him, Strider," Vonar told him, leaning forward in his chair. "You think that all the fault and guilt is yours. I talked to my father about this over the past week, a lot of times. There is nothing you could have done to change what happened. There is nothing anybody could have done to change it. That the town is still standing is a miracle. You saved it, you and Torel and all the others who were sent to the dams to stop Hurag's men. He is not the only one who died; there are many more who did not return to their families. You had no part in my cousin's death, Strider. He would have followed anyone who had found out what Hurag was planning; he would have done anything to save our hometown and his family from almost certain death. "

"But he did not," Aragorn interrupted him. "He followed me. I took him there; I told him what to do and led him to his death. _I_ did this."

"And you did not force him to follow." Vonar shook his head. "I knew my cousin, Strider. He did what he did out of his own free will. If he hadn't thought it the right course of action, he wouldn't have done it. It's as simple as that."

"It is _not_ simple," the dark-haired ranger protested. "It is everything but simple! Do you know what happened when the dam broke? I managed to grab his shirt. Do you understand? I grabbed his shirt, but he was hit by the remains of the battering ram and could not hold on, and I could not hold him either. I let go of him, and he was swept away and to his death."

Tears were suddenly in Vonar's eyes, once again reminding Aragorn of how young the boy really was, no matter how mature he sounded. For long moments, he said nothing, but then he finally did, not being able to meet the ranger's eyes.  
"You held him as long as you could. I saw you before he and you left for the docks, Strider. You were already dead on your feet. You did what you could and a lot more. No one could fault you for that."

"I can," Aragorn said softly. "And I will, for the rest of my life." For the first time in more than a week, his old, wry humour made an appearance, and he added, "Rangers live somewhat longer than the average human, so that could be a while."

"I would say that is a good thing," Vonar told him earnestly. "By remembering him and what he did, you will do honour to Torel's memory. But as I said, I knew my cousin. He wouldn't have wanted anybody to remember him for the way he died. Remember him for what he did and how he lived, and you will do him a far greater honour."

"You sound like my father," Aragorn said, and left it to Vonar to decide if that was a compliment or not. "But I don't know if I can do that."

Vonar didn't answer immediately. In the end he lifted his head and looked at the ranger, the tears he had held back so long finally beginning to fall.  
"I know," he whispered. "I talked to my father about this, again and again, and I know that he is right and what I just said is the truth. And I spoke the truth, Strider; I do not hold you accountable or blame you for anything, and I knew Torel wouldn't have done it either. But…" He fell silent, but then continued bravely, "But I don't think I can do that either. I just … miss him, and nothing could ever make me forget the way he died. And…"

"And?" Aragorn prompted him gently when the younger man fell silent and would not speak for a long while.

"I … I didn't talk to anybody about it, not even to my father, but … but I can't help but think that I shouldn't have let him go with you that night. I don't even know how he convinced me to leave."

"You were injured. You were too weak to accompany us any further."

Vonar gave him a long look.  
"I know that that's the pot calling the kettle black, but if you'll permit me to say so, Strider, you weren't exactly a shining example of health either."

"Maybe not." Aragorn shrugged. "But that is beside the point. Someone had to warn your father of what was going on. There was no way around it."

"I know," Vonar said, his voice so soft that even Aragorn's elven-trained hearing could hardly understand him. "I just cannot shake the feeling that it should have been him."

There was nothing Aragorn could say to that. Maybe it should have been Torel and not Vonar, maybe it should have been him, that was something he would never know, but what he did know was that neither of the two should have died, and most certainly not Torel. He had been so idealistic and brave and stubborn and so very young – so much younger than Aragorn had felt in a long time…

The pause grew into a silence that neither of them wished to break. It was not an uncomfortable silence, though, and so they let it grow for quite some time.

And later, when Vonar had taken his leave and Aragorn had succumbed to the sleepiness that still visited him frequently, it was the first time that the young ranger's dreams were not haunted by towering walls of dark water, or by a pair of fearful brown eyes that looked at him with a hope he could never fulfil.  
**  
****  
**  
Four days later, Elrond heaved a large sigh and tried to close his saddlebag with what was supposed to be a final gesture. Considering how little he had brought – they hadn't had a lot of space or time to pack when they had left Rivendell – it had taken an inordinate amount of time to prepare everything for their departure.

And all that even though he hadn't even acquired anything! He could not understand how these things always accumulated, especially now that he wasn't even travelling in his wife's company anymore. That was another thing he had never understood: How she-elves (or females of any other race, for that matter) could spend a single night somewhere and pick up several pounds of luggage at the same time, mostly in the form of clothing, accessories and other things whose purpose no male would ever be able to understand.

A sudden smile spread over the half-elf's features. He distinctly remembered saying those very same words to Celebrían when they had just been married for a few decades – more proof that newlywed husbands had a lot to learn (or, in his wife's words, were idiots). Galadriel's daughter had not been amused by what she had perceived to be thinly-veiled criticism or his question of why she needed another shawl when she already had more than a dozen. He had suffered the repercussions of this – in his eyes – innocent comment for a long time.

It truly seemed to him that his beloved wife had rubbed off on him over the years, because right now he had serious trouble convincing the bags to close. It didn't make any sense, since he had used an impressive amount of healing supplies and the bags should therefore be lighter instead of heavier, but, well, some things could not be denied or explained. He was only one step away from sitting on the highly uncooperative bags in a last attempt to close them.

Elf lords, however, did not do such undignified things, and since Glorfindel was somewhere close-by, he wouldn't either. Giving the leather bags a last dark look, Elrond grasped the strings that would close them and, after much mumbled cursing and wrestling with the leather, tied them shut. The bags almost seemed to shudder once before giving up, and while Elrond took them up and added them to the growing mountain of bigger and smaller satchels and bags, he decided that he really needed some rest and quiet once they were all back home. He would wait till his errant sons and friends were settled and would then leave everything in Glorfindel's capable hands and travel to someplace quiet and safe. Like, for example, Barad-dûr or Harad.

It was quite interesting how much and how quickly your perceptions could change, he mused. A few years ago, the thought of the people he loved constantly at death's door would have horrified him; now, however, it was an everyday occurrence.

Oh yes, Elrond decided when he realised just what he was thinking. He needed a lot of peace and quiet and tranquillity.

"Are you ready, my lord?"

Glorfindel's soft voice drew him out of his thoughts (which were right now centred on how wonderfully relaxing a swim in the lava pools of Orodruin would be), something for which he was quite grateful, by the way, and the dark-haired elf turned, one of his saddlebags still in hand. Glorfindel was peeking into his room, if elf lords did such things, and only now that he was looking at him did the other elf step into his room. The older elf was clearly ready himself, already having donned his arms and cloak. The cloak's dark colour emphasised the paleness of his face and his slightly hollow look, and Elrond thought not for the first time that he wasn't the only one who hadn't slept or eaten enough these past weeks.

"I see that you are," he answered with a small smile. "My bags refused to co-operate for a while, but I got the better of them."

"Yet another song will be sung about your greatness. 'The Lay of the Saddlebags'." Glorfindel frowned and leaned back against the doorpost. "Somehow it lacks poetry, though."

"Not necessarily." Elrond shrugged. "I am sure Lindir can come up with something."

"If anybody can, it is Lindir," Glorfindel agreed.

Elrond didn't say anything to that and only smiled in agreement. He put down the bags and turned back around, walking over to the bed and taking up his sword belt. If he had learned one thing during the past weeks, it was that he would rather eat his own cloak than walk around unarmed anywhere close to this town.

After he had wrapped the belt around his waist and fastened it, he turned back around to his friend, sudden doubt in his eyes.  
"Should we be doing this, Glorfindel? Should we be leaving now, even though the prince, Erestor and Estel are not well yet?"

Glorfindel looked at him steadily.  
"The only alternative I can see is staying here for a while longer; there is no friendly place or settlement close-by that could shelter us. And while the journey will be stressful, it will be better for everybody involved if we leave now. Being here is not conducive to anybody's recovery." He frowned. "I do not think Captain Isál truly likes anyone here, and Tibron and his brother least of all. If we give him a bit more time, he will come up with something that will cause at least a serious diplomatic incident."

"I cannot say that I would blame him," Elrond said. "Some of the councilmen and master traders have become quite … annoying."

"That is one way of saying it," Glorfindel mumbled, clearly unconvinced by his lord's choice of words. "They have been pestering us for days on end."

Elrond knew that tone of voice and knew what it meant, and he looked up sharply.  
"Glorfindel. We talked about this."

"Yes, we did, my lord." Glorfindel nodded. "And my opinion hasn't changed. Toran is guilty, maybe as guilty as Hurag was. He is Tibron's brother, yes, but that cannot be reason enough to spare him."

"I am reluctant to execute the brother of my host, yes."

"I don't want to execute him," the golden-haired elf lord protested. "The council would do anything to placate you right now. We could hand him over to them and…"

"…have them execute him?" Elrond finished the sentence. "Really, Glorfindel, I had never thought that you were one to mince words."

"And I had never thought that you were so willing to let a guilty man escape," Glorfindel countered. "Why, Elrond? Give me one good reason and I will not speak of this again."

The half-elf sighed.  
"Because Toran has already been punished, Glorfindel, more severely than we or the Council of Aberon ever could." His eyes turned serious and very dark. "He lost his son, Glorfindel, and he knows that the boy died because of the consequences of his ill-advised actions. There is nothing more we could or would need to do. Is that not enough?"

The fair-haired elf remained silent for a while, but then he inclined his head minutely.  
"You are right, _mellon nín_. That is a good reason." He took a deep breath, clearly trying to change the subject, and added, "How is Estel?"

A frown settled over Elrond's face.  
"Physically, he is mending, even though he will need several more weeks to recover. Emotionally, I am not so sure. Better, I would say. Whatever Vonar told him, it helped. He is still not back to his old self, but I think he will get there. With time and patience, that is."

"He's too young for all this," Glorfindel said gravely. "Far too young for any of this."

"Most humans would be too young for this, Dúnedain or no," Elrond said. "Most elves, too, thinking of it."

"And a good thing it is, too," the golden-haired elf told him. "If it weren't like that, this world would be a dark place indeed, a place not worth living in." He frowned. "There would be more healers too, I presume."

Elrond looked at him, a smile slowly beginning to spread over his features.  
"You can be refreshingly positive when you want to be, _mellon nín_. In a slightly mad, unsettling way, but still positive. But," he went on with a shrug, "you are right, as you often are." He ignored his friend's whispered 'Always!' and continued. "It will be slow travelling, but I think leaving is the right option. I tried to convince Estel or Legolas to use stretchers – we could easily string them up between two horses – but they refused point blank and in a very definite manner."

"That was not all Erestor did when I asked the same of him," Glorfindel retorted, wincing at the memory. "He also snorted in that unique manner of his and looked at me as if I had questioned his intelligence." Elrond flinched in sympathy. "I think that he would rather walk up to the Dark Tower and declare his allegiance to its master than leave this town under anything but his own power."

"Stranger things have happened," Elrond told him with a small smirk. "I am sure Sauron could use a good chief advisor."

"Who doesn't?"

"Indeed," the younger elf agreed. "I don't know what I would do without someone who looks at me as if I am losing my mind at least once a month. I would surely sink into depression or begin to suffer from delusions of grandeur." He ignored the look on Glorfindel's face that clearly said that at least the latter had already happened (he was getting quite good at ignoring the other elf, he decided almost proudly), and added, his voice softer and far more serious, "How is he doing? I haven't had time to see him very often these past few days."

Glorfindel knew that, of course, but he didn't harbour any resentment about the fact. Elrond had been too busy preparing and organising their journey back to Rivendell and everything that it entailed to do much more than check in on Erestor once a day and only very briefly each time. To his knowledge he had spent a little bit more time with Estel and the prince (who, by now, was more or less camping out in the young ranger's room, which saved time if nothing else), but even their care he had more or less entrusted to his twin sons.

Who were, at least judging by the grim masks of annoyance and general unhappiness that had laid themselves over their usually so merry faces, very close to losing their mind and their patience. Come to think of it, the same look could be seen on young Celylith's face.

"As well as can be expected," he finally answered cautiously. "He is doing his best to forget everything that has happened this past month."

Elrond let out a long, weary sigh. That had been his reaction many times in the past, after many horrible events and catastrophes, and every time he had painfully been taught that this particular tactic never – ever – worked. Not even or perhaps especially for elves.

"I know," Glorfindel finally went on. "You and I both know that he will not, that he cannot, but you know him. He will not listen to me, at least not in this regard." He sighed as well. "I fear that, until he truly comes to accept this, he will make things only worse for himself."

"That is something Erestor would do," Elrond said. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead in an attempt to alleviate the omnipresent headache that was intensifying yet again – not since they had set foot in this town had he truly been free of it. "He never expects the rules and limitations that apply to everybody else to apply to him also. He expects too much of himself."

"And there, my friend, he would not be the only one," Glorfindel told him, pushing away from the doorpost and taking a step closer to his lord and friend. "I know another who does just the same. You could even say that it is a kind of hobby, a personal preference. Now who could that be, I wonder?"

Elrond opened his eyes again, not even having the energy to feel disgruntled. With the hectic preparations of the past few days, his ever-present worry for Estel, his annoyance at Prince Legolas and Erestor for only partially heeding his orders and about a thousand things in between to occupy his mind and take up his time, he was finally out of patience. Elbereth, if they stayed here just one more day Isál wouldn't be the only one to kill a few humans and he would gladly join his young captain in a killing spree of epic proportions.

You could take diplomacy too far, after all.

Therefore, lacking patience that was required when dealing with Glorfindel at any time, he was in no mood for games or hints or other manifestations of the very elven trait of speaking many words without saying anything at all, a trait to which he himself succumbed frequently.

"Glorfindel," he began, forcing himself to calmness. He had joked with the other elf readily enough in the beginning, but even his patience had its limits, especially when it was coming to an end. He didn't even pause to think about whether or not that had just made sense. "You know that you are my friend and that I love you. You are as dear to me a brother might be, and I would do close to anything for you." He did not say truly anything; he simply knew Glorfindel too well ever to make such a suicidal statement. "That being said, please don't take it in a wrong way when I tell you that I am quickly losing my patience and that I will have to kill you slowly and painfully if you do not tell me what you wish to tell me."

Glorfindel, Manwë curse his insubordinate and sometimes far too cheerful soul, merely smiled at him, not looking impressed in the slightest. Elrond bristled. He was a millennia-old elf lord, renowned far and wide for his wisdom and kindness but also for his terrible might in battle, and people should not be impervious to his threats. Not even those who had killed a balrog and walked away from it, at least in a manner of speaking.

"Of course, my lord," the golden-haired elf said pleasantly, in a tone of voice that would have driven even the most even-spirited elf either to distraction or to murder. "You have been taxing yourself to the limit, Elrond. When we get back to Rivendell, you will have to take some rest. In fact, you will have to take a long, long rest."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Elrond asked, arching a half-amused eyebrow.

"It is." Glorfindel nodded in a most regal way. "Even Erestor acknowledges my superior knowledge in these areas."

"I seriously doubt that."

"There is, however," the older elf went on, "something I have been meaning to tell you for some days now. In fact, it is something Erestor told me to tell you. Even though he can be incredibly irritating in his super-Noldorin way, he can be quite astute sometimes."

"Glorfindel," Elrond said again, almost sounding tired, "Do I really have to repeat what I said a minute ago?"

"I hope not," Glorfindel told him, and even though he still looked exceedingly pleased with himself, the confident, playful façade was beginning to show some small, faint cracks. "Rule 18: Elf lords do not require information to be repeated to them."

"One of these days, you have to give me a full list of your rules. It would be nice to be prepared."

"Erestor has one, I think," the blond elf commented thoughtfully. "I don't know how he got it or when, but then again, he has his connections. He can be devious when he wants to be." Elrond only shrugged and nodded to that, and so Glorfindel added, suddenly not looking all that confident, "He … well, he told me to talk to you…" He trailed off and shook his head, oblivious to his friend's wide-eyed stare. "Oh, Morgoth take it. Erestor told me that you think I hold you some sort of grudge because of what happened in Donrag." He shook his head again, this time incredulously. "Why would you think such a thing, Elrond?"

For a few moments, Elrond was completely and utterly speechless. It wasn't something that happened very often – once every two or three _yéni_, perhaps – but Glorfindel was far too agitated and distracted to either notice or care.

"I was there when you reached the courtyard after having found Erestor, Glorfindel," Elrond finally answered, his voice pressed and carefully neutral. "I will never forgive myself for causing you the pain that I saw in your eyes when I refused your request to help him. You are my friend, Glorfindel; never have I wished to cause you pain. But I understand your feelings. I chose another one's life over your friend's, over my friend's life. I understand your anger."

Glorfindel took a deep breath and couldn't decide whether he was feeling sad or slightly annoyed. He had never met anybody with quite the same ability to blame himself for everything that happened around him. Then again, Tuor had been similar and even Eärendil, young as he had been when he had last seen him. It just might be a genetic feature, which would mean that it would exempt his friend from all blame, but that didn't mean that it made the trait any less bothersome.

"You are right, I was angry," he told the younger elf. "I _was_, Elrond. I was angry, and I was frightened and tired and almost out of my mind with worry. I can hardly remember what I told you in the courtyard, but whatever it was, I beg your forgiveness. I know that you did the right thing."

"I am not so sure about that." Elrond shook his head. "I am sure it was the sensible, the logical thing. But was it the right thing? I don't know."

"It does not matter anymore, my friend," Glorfindel said. "Both the prince and Erestor live and are recovering. That, in my opinion, means that you did the right thing. If I was too distraught to see it back then, forgive me."

"You said nothing, Glorfindel, nothing disrespectful or harsh. Nothing I would have to forgive." The half-elf bit down on his lower lip, probably without him even noticing. "In fact, you said nothing at all, and that frightened me more than anything else could have. You tend to be quite vocal when it comes to voicing your opinions."

"I resent that," the golden-haired elf protested. "That is simply not true. I am just as calm and unshakable as the next elf lord."

"Oh, yes." Elrond nodded. "In a most vocal way." He smiled at his old friend, but then he remembered what they had been talking about and turned serious again. "I should be the one asking for your forgiveness. I know that Erestor means to you as much, perhaps more, as he means to me."

Glorfindel exhaled slowly and, for a short, but very tempting moment, contemplated beating the other elf's head against the wall until he was listening to what he was trying to tell him. Coming to the realisation that that would be a mite disrespectful (and, in all likelihood, a violation of his very own rules), he settled for taking a step forward and placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. Elrond's head came up at the unexpected contact, and Glorfindel looked at him intently.

"I can only repeat myself: Why would you think such a thing of me, Elrond? No, please let me finish. Yes, I was angry when you told me that you could not come with me to aid Erestor, and frightened and in panic and worried. But that has passed, my friend, just like the heat of the battle that can overcome even the oldest and wisest of us, and I can think clearly once more. I bear you no grudge, son of Eärendil. I know that you did the right thing, the only thing you could do. I have led troops into battle, just like you have, and I know all there is to know about sacrifices, perhaps more than any other elf on this side of the Sundering Seas. It could have been Erestor in Prince Legolas' place, or Elladan, or me – or a warrior with whom you hadn't exchanged more than five words in all your life. It does not matter. Without you, the prince would have died, right then, right there. There was nothing else you could have done, Elrond, and both you and I know it. Any good leader would have done the same. _I_ would have done the same."

Elrond didn't look completely convinced at that, even though the lines of stress and worry that had been visible on his ageless features had lessened a little bit, and when he opened his mouth to say something, Glorfindel shook his head and interrupted him, his hand tightening its grip on the other elf's shoulder.

"There is nothing I would have to forgive you, except perhaps the fact that you ran off with a handful of warriors and did not inform anybody about your intentions, scaring half the officers to death." Startled by that, Elrond gave him a questioning look, and Glorfindel shrugged nonchalantly. "I spoke to Commander Meneldir, so don't even think about denying it."

Elrond almost smiled at that but then thought better of it. Trying to avoid the other's eyes, he lowered his head, studying the highly fascinating floorboards, but Glorfindel would have none of it. The older warrior was suddenly standing in front of him, and cool, long fingers were placed under the dark-haired elf's chin and lifted his head. Cornered like a mouse in a trap, Elrond swallowed against the myriad of emotions that battled inside of him and met his friend's eyes, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw not the anger and accusation he had feared but rather concern, mild amusement and love.

"Do not give me that look, _pen-neth_. You know you can be reckless at times. Where else do you think your sons got it from? From your wife? She is far too sensible for that; too much her father's daughter." He paused for a moment. "Elrond, surely you know that I was not angry at _you_? I was angry at the men, at fate, even at the Valar, at everything that had conspired against us and delayed us from coming to Erestor's rescue – but I was _never_ angry at you. We are friends, Elrond, shield-brothers, brothers in all but blood. I trust you unconditionally. No-one is perfect, I know that, and even the mightiest of us make mistakes, but I know that you will always do what you think is right. There is no blame in this, my friend, not for you. And even if there was, there is nothing in this world that you could do that I would or could not forgive you. Nothing at all."

Elrond looked at him, no expression visible on his face. In the end, an almost amused glint came into his eyes, bringing them closer to the warm grey colour they usually were.  
"You, with the possible exception of my parents-in-law and Círdan, are the only person in Middle-earth that can get away with calling me '_pen-neth_'."

"It is true." Glorfindel shrugged, a smile beginning to spread over his pale features. He recognised a graceful, wordless acknowledgement when he saw one. "Compared to me, you are…"

"…but a sapling that hasn't yet seen his first winter," Elrond finished his sentence. "Yes, o wise and old one, I know."

"You don't have to call me that all the time." The golden-haired elf smiled benevolently. "But I like it. Respect is what many of you young ones lack very often nowadays." Elrond merely looked at him with wide eyes that were clearly stating that the half-elf considered him a seriously twisted, mad individual, but Glorfindel ignored it with annoying proficiency and continued. "Can we leave now? That diplomatic incident I was mentioning is just waiting to occur, I am sure about it. There is no reason to give Captain Isál even more time to plan the gruesome details."

"It would make everything more interesting," Elrond told him, but turned and took up his bags. "But yes, I am ready. Everybody is already waiting?"

"The warriors are." Glorfindel nodded, taking a quick step forward and relieving the half-elf of some of the bags that were threatening to slip out of his grasp. "The twins and young Celylith are bringing down Aragorn and the prince, or at least that was the plan. If they haven't succeeded yet, they might need our assistance."

"Oh, they will manage," Elrond told him, his voice full of unwavering conviction. "Celylith is one of Thranduil's captains and son of Lord Celythramir, which makes him automatically devious. And the twins are Celebrían's sons and Lady Galadriel's grandsons. They could talk a Nazgûl into buying an entire pink wardrobe."

"And none of your or your ancestors' character traits would have anything to do with that, I would assume."

"Mine?" Elrond asked, the very picture of innocence. "Why would you think that?"

"Why indeed," Glorfindel mumbled amusedly and followed his friend over to the door.

When they reached the door, Elrond stopped and waited for him to catch up, giving the room he had been given a last look. He had barely been here, having rather spent the time in various sickrooms, and couldn't say that he felt the least bit regret about having to leave it behind. Turning back without hesitation, he smiled at Glorfindel, the first real smile he had been smiling for several weeks.

"Thank you, Glorfindel. Somehow you always know what to say."

Glorfindel smiled as well, resisting the ridiculous urge to tousle the younger elf's hair. He knew it would be disrespectful and ridiculous (not to mention against the rules once more), but sometimes Elrond could look so much like the youngling he had met all those ages ago at the court of Ereinion Gil-galad in Lindon.

"That is because I am old and wise, young one," he told the other elf in his best arrogant-elf-lord voice. Elrond's smile widened into a grin, and he added while they were walking down the corridor, "But you aren't doing too badly either."

"You are my shining example."

If Glorfindel heard the irony, he was steadfastly ignoring it.  
"I am honoured."

"My guiding star, one could say."

"It is good to be needed."

"When I am as old as you are, I want to be just like you."

"Thank you."

"Then again, who knows if I will ever reach such an ancient age…?"

"'Ancient'!"

"An age where hearing loss seems to be no uncommon occurrence … Put down that bag, Glorfindel! Whatever do you want to do with it, hit me? What an un-elf-lordly activity! I am sure there is a rule against it!"

A grumbling sound could be heard.

"Pardon me?"

"I said, Rule 11."

"One of these days you really have to give me a list."

"Demands, demands … you want your list, Erestor wants more books, Estel wants a refresher course in lockpicking…"

"I thought it was good to be needed … Estel wants a _refresher_ course? You taught my son to do what?"

"Uhm, I really think we should be leaving…"

"You stay right where you are! You taught my son to do _what_!"  
**  
****  
****  
**  
A few rooms to the left and a level up, Elladan and Elrohir were contemplating breaking all of Glorfindel's rules and trying their hands on a new Kinslaying. And this time it would involve the Sindar from the very beginning, which would make everything a lot more interesting (and, if they knew King Thranduil at all, also a lot bloodier).

Selling a Nazgûl a pink outfit would have been child's play compared to this.

Finally, when he could not stand the stifling silence anymore, Elladan folded his arms across his chest and gave the two beings sitting in front of him a look that he hoped was full of menace and authority. If it was, the two of them were woefully unimpressed.

"Why can't you just accept that you are not well enough to ride yet? What is so horrible about allowing yourself to be helped and using a stretcher?"

The two of them didn't react immediately. Both of them were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, their legs (in Aragorn's case, one bandaged leg and one un-bandaged one) dangling over the edge and looking ridiculously like recalcitrant schoolboys. Legolas was looking better than his human friend, with fewer bruises and fewer bandages and more colour on his face. For an elf, however, he still looked weak and pale, even though the bandages he was still wearing were hidden under his clothes and the bruises and shallow cuts had faded almost completely.

"I am a wood-elf, Elladan," the slightly healthier-looking one of the two finally said, regarding the dark-haired elf with a look that clearly stated that one shouldn't have to say such an obvious thing out loud. "Wood-elves do not get carried out of human towns like invalids. Especially not if the inhabitants of said towns have tried to kill us."

"But you get carried into Mirkwood all the time," Elrohir told him, stepping up next to his twin in a show of support that failed to impress either the Silvan elf or the ranger. "Don't try to deny it. It happens so often to you that I am sure there are secret stacks of litters and stretchers all over Mirkwood, just to be sure. I fail to see the difference."

Legolas arched an eyebrow, exchanging a quick look with his silent companion.  
"Then I cannot help you either, Elrohir. These people here tried to kill us, or at least didn't try to save us from such a fate. I am a prince of Mirkwood, and I will not show weakness in front of them."

"Stubbornness is weakness. Stupidity is weakness. Narrow-mindedness is weakness, ignorance is weakness, intolerance is weakness. Accepting help when you need it is _not _weakness."

For the first time since the twins had come into his room and had once again tried to convince them to allow themselves to be placed on stretchers, Aragorn raised his head and looked at his brothers, grey eyes uncompromising and steely.

"I do not understand why we are even still arguing. We – are – not – going – to – use – stretchers. End of conversation."

If Aragorn hadn't still been recovering – and not too well at that – at least one of the twins would have said something highly sarcastic or scathing. Things being as they were, however, the two dark-haired elves merely glared at their human brother in a way that very cl

"I can't possibly imagine," Elrohir said, deadpan.

Deciding that this was getting out of hand, Elladan interrupted the two of them.  
"So you will not even consider it? Estel, please, you must see that you are not well enough…"

"I'll ride with you, then," Aragorn offered quickly – too quickly. Elladan looked at his younger brother, suddenly suspecting that the man had been planning this all along and had started bargaining high on purpose. "Or with Elrohir, or with _ada_, or Glorfindel or Isál – I don't care. All I know is that I will not be carried out of this city. I rode into it, and, by Varda Elentári's stars, I _will_ ride out of it."

The twins studied the two pale, but very resolute faces in front of them, exchanged a resigned look and came to the decision that further arguing would be futile and a waste of time. Both Legolas and Estel were stubborn to a fault – they were their fathers' sons, after all – and if they decided on a course of action, they usually followed it, too. And when they were of the same opinion – something that happened far too often – and had therefore one another to provide moral support, there was virtually no way to sway them.

"All right," Elrohir finally acquiesced. "But I want your promises that you will ride with somebody else."

"Exactly," Elladan went on, finishing his brother's line of thought. "Estel, you will ride with one of us." Aragorn only curtly nodded his head, which reinforced the twin's suspicions that he was being played here. "And you, Legolas…"

"I will ride with Celylith," the wood-elf interrupted his friend. "I mean no offence, but before I would entrust myself to your riding skills, I would have to be either under a lot more pain medication or a lot more desperate."

"How can one not take offence at that?"

Legolas only shrugged and grinned, and Aragorn, sitting next to him, couldn't help but grin with him. Legolas' grin faded slightly as he turned and looked at Aragorn, seeing the dark, haunted shadows that hadn't been there before. Even though he was getting better, Torel's death was still haunting the young man, more than anything they had experienced before this. But now that he knew what had happened after Hurag's men had breached the dam, he could understand it far better.

He would look like that, too, if he'd had a hold of somebody only to watch him disappear under thousands of gallons of water to be swept away to his death.

They had talked a lot in the past few days. Legolas had come to understand that Celylith had been right; they hadn't been able to help his friend because they simply hadn't been there. They hadn't witnessed any of the events that had very nearly killed the ranger and had killed Toran's son, and overcome with grief and pain and guilt, they had been outsiders to Aragorn – and be it only subconsciously – and therefore people who could not possibly understand what he was thinking or feeling.

Legolas' first instinct upon hearing Aragorn's whispered explanation had been cursing the man and telling him what a fool he was for believing that he couldn't or wouldn't understand him. His second had been to hug him. He had done both excessively before Lord Elrond had appeared and thrown him out. The elf lord was very pleased about Aragorn's improved condition, but he wasn't pleased enough to let a patient of his get away with disregarding his orders and denying himself the rest he needed.

The elven prince gave the hollow face of his friend a long look. Aragorn was talking to them again, was answering questions, asking questions and even attempting to make a few jokes. But the knowledge of what had happened was never far from his mind, and he knew that the man would need time and rest to be able to put it behind him.

Once they got back to Rivendell, he would personally see to it that he got both.

"You Noldor," he finally said, remembering what they had been talking about. "Always so easily offended. It's what started all that trouble at the end of the Years of the Trees."

Elrohir and Elladan exchanged an outraged look.  
"That 'trouble'? Murder and theft are more than enough reason for me!" Elrohir exclaimed.

"An overreaction, nothing more." Legolas shook his head. "You lot can be awfully sensitive."

"I have to say that that isn't too farfetched," Aragorn chimed in. There was a glint in his eyes that reminded the three elves of the time before all this, and the three exchanged a quick, satisfied look before they went back to glaring at each other. "Sometimes they are overly sensitive. Do you remember that one time when I pushed them into the river as a child? They are still upset about that!"

"Noldor." Legolas shrugged exaggeratedly. "No sense of humour, sensitive, prone to overreacting, and absolutely no capacity for forgiveness."

Aragorn nodded, deep sadness on his face.  
"I am reluctant to admit it, but that is a rather accurate description."

"I know," the fair-haired elf agreed. "It's my father's."

"He would say something like that, yes."

Elrohir looked from one mock serious face to the other before he turned to his twin, a dark light shining in his eyes.  
"I say we kill him."

Elladan raised an eyebrow while he mirrored his brother's actions, looking from the smirking Aragorn to the smirking Legolas and back again.  
"Which one?"

"Does it matter?"

Aragorn looked at his brothers, smiling sweetly.  
"Don't you have something important to do? Something that doesn't take place here? Like trying to find Celylith's new pet before he can officially adopt it?"

Elrohir glared at his younger brother. The man did – contrary to the three of them – not believe that Celylith had found another monster to cherish and protect. It was either extremely positive thinking or the naiveté of youth. The fact that none of them had managed to find out what it was or where he was hiding it did of course nothing to sway the ranger's position. When he had talked with Elladan about it, his twin had frowned deeply as if trying to remember something, but with everything that had happened in such a short amount of time, had not been able to figure out what it was.

Knowing Celylith, it was probably better this way.

"Speaking of which," Elladan interrupted his thoughts, "where _is_ Celylith?"

"Readying the horses," Legolas said. "You know how Rashwe can get. He has been cooped up in a stable for the past two and a half weeks. He is not happy at the moment."

Elrohir couldn't suppress a small shudder of either fear or disgust that ran through him at that. He had accompanied Legolas when the younger elf had first visited his horse – if you could call it a horse – and he would like to forget the experience. Even though the animal had clearly been overjoyed to see his master, it had apparently decided that the twins in general and he in particular were responsible for Legolas' long absence. Considering that the horse was locked-up in a human stable, it had found an impressive number of possibilities of showing him just what it thought about that.

"He is never happy," Elladan told the elven prince firmly. "That … thing doesn't even know how to be happy."

Legolas looked truly hurt at that.  
"You don't even know Rashwe, Elladan. You can't, or you wouldn't say something like that."

The older twin snorted in a way that made further words superfluous.  
"Whatever you say, Legolas. And to answer your questions, Estel," he turned to his human brother, "our part in all this is to bring you down to the courtyard and talk some sense into you. The latter part did not go so well, obviously, but I will not fail in the first."

"What commendable dedication to duty you display," Aragorn teased his brother. "You should go and find Celylith. He can help you carry all our bags." The twins looked at each other, outraged, and he added, "What? You want to tie us to stretchers but expect us to carry out own luggage?"

Before either of the twins could answer, the door opened and Celylith walked in. Considering the dark looks on the two elves' faces, it was probably a good thing that they didn't get the chance to speak. If Celylith noticed the expression on their faces, he certainly did not show it; he was far too distracted for that. None of the occupants of the room could see a reason for the silver-haired elf's preoccupied state of mind, but preoccupied he was, that much was sure.

The wood-elf merely gave them a wordless nod in a manner of greeting and began to scan the room's walls, paying special attention to the corners. When he didn't find anything – or not what he was looking for, at least – he began to look at the furniture, as if he was expecting something to hide behind or inside of it.

For a few moments, the four only stared at their friend, but then Elrohir only shrugged, apparently having long ago accepted that wood-elves in general and Celylith in particular were by definition strange.  
"So, _mellon nín_, are you going to help us carry their bags? I think you should; he," he nodded into Legolas' direction, "is your prince, after all."

Celylith barely looked up and only nodded absentmindedly. It was clear that he hadn't truly heard what the twin was talking about.  
"Of course, of course. Whatever you say. Has one of you seen Lúthien?"

"Lúthien?" Elrohir's brow wrinkled in confusion. The name wasn't too unusual for she-elves – many parents, Sindar and Noldor alike, wanted to honour the most beautiful elf ever to walk this earth by naming their daughters after her – but he was very sure that they hadn't brought any she-elves with them. "What Lúthien?"

Celylith ripped his eyes away from a corner for a moment and gave the younger twin a blank look.  
"What do you mean, what Lúthien?"

The four merely stared at the wood-elf, and Legolas finally summed up what all of them were thinking.  
"What are you talking about, my friend? Have you by any chance taken a hit to the head lately? Who is this Lúthien?"

Celylith was ignoring him, but before Legolas could tell him just what he thought about that, Elladan groaned and closed his eyes. He was the perfect example for somebody who had just remembered something he had successfully suppressed for some time.  
"Oh, you didn't. Please tell me that you didn't."

"Didn't do _what_?" That was Aragorn, sounding very much as if his very human patience was beginning to wear thin. "What are all of you talking about!"

Legolas stared at his friend, putting two and two together. He had seen too many of Celylith's 'pets' to be surprised by anything, and the eviller part of him couldn't help but grin at the other's words and the disbelief on the twins' and Aragorn's faces.

"You … you named your newest pet Lúthien?"

"Hm?" Celylith looked up, opening the window with his left hand. "Oh, yes. A good name, isn't it?"

Legolas was biting down hard on his lower lip in order not to burst out laughing (judging by the expressions of the three brothers, that would not be a good idea and probably end in mayhem and murder), but Celylith didn't even notice and turned back to the window. Sticking his head out into the morning sunlight, he squinted and moved around until his back was to the open window, staring intently up, at the thatched roof that was only a few feet above the window's upper edge. It was shadowy and dark there, but the sharp eyes of an elf – and especially a wood-elf – had no trouble piercing the gloom.

What could be there that might warrant such a focussed expression, Legolas couldn't say, though.

If Legolas knew his companions at all, at least the twins were contemplating seizing this opportunity and giving the silver-haired elf a little push, but before they could put any plan into action, Celylith made a sound of triumph and reached up, almost losing his balance and plummeting to his doom. The twins didn't even try to hide their disappointed expressions, but those quickly disappeared when Celylith leaned back into the room, his hands clasped before his stomach and his gaze fixed firmly on them.

The problem was that his hands were clasped around something, something small and black. Something small and black that looked suspiciously like a little bat.

Aragorn closed first one and then the other eye, firmly telling himself that these must be the long-term effects from all the hits he had taken to the head lately. Even the skull of a ranger could take only so much, after all. A moment later, he opened his eyes again, only to find that the scene in front of him hadn't changed: Legolas and his brothers were still staring at Celylith as if he had finally taken complete leave of his senses, and the silver-haired elf was still holding a small, black bat in his hands.

Ah well, he decided with an inner shrug and slowly and carefully placed his elbows on his knees, preparing to enjoy this spectacle. It could have been worse. Celylith could have picked a fell beast of Mordor or something equally disgusting. This bat was actually rather … fluffy. For Celylith's standards, that was.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Elladan began in a very calm tone of voice. "You actually kept this … this thing…"

"Do we really have to have this conversation again?" That had been enough to bring Celylith out of his enamoured trance, and he stared at the older twin disapprovingly. "'It' is a she."

Elladan shot him a look that would have impressed even the most mean-spirited warg.  
"As if it matters."

"It matters to me."

"Fine!" the older twin exclaimed, apparently reaching the end of his patience. "So you kept _her_, brought _her_ to Aberon and gave _her_ the name of my great-great-grandmother?"

Celylith looked at him with a frown on his face.  
"You make it sound as if it's a bad thing."

Elladan fell silent, apparently having been rendered speechless, and Elrohir leaned forward, incredulity and faint amusement in his eyes.  
"How would you like it if we picked the ugliest warg cub we could find and gave it – excuse me, her – the name of your grandmother?"

Legolas groaned inwardly and allowed himself to flop back down onto the bed. That was it, he didn't want to hear or see any more of this.  
"Now why did you have to go and say that?"

Celylith ignored him, a calculating expression coming into his eyes.  
"That would depend. Would it be a long-haired warg or a short-haired warg? Personally, I have never liked the short-haired ones."

The twins exchanged a look full of incredulity, mild horror and a certain amount of pity.  
"You are mad!"

"What interests me a lot more," Aragorn interrupted his brothers, "is how that thing…"

"Lúthien!" Legolas interjected, his voice slightly muffled by the arm he had thrown over his face but still clearly amused.

Aragorn gave him a blank look.  
"As I said, how that thing got here. It's a bat! Why would it be outside of my window!"

"She got away from me yesterday night. Didn't you, Lúthien?" Celylith all but cooed at the small bat that was blinking up at it with large dark eyes. Elladan looked as if he either wanted to kill somebody or vomit. "I took her up to my room yesterday and left the window open. That was a stupid thing to do, and I am very sorry. Just imagine, little one, I almost wouldn't have found you in time!"

"Are you going to kill him or should I do it?" Elrohir whispered not very softly to his twin.

"Nobody is going to kill him until I get some answers." Legolas had sat up again and was looking from his friend (who was ignoring him) to the twins. "I would very much like to know just when he had the opportunity and the time to find a bat! I mean … a _bat_ of all things!"

"Oh, I can answer that," Elladan said. "It happened in the salt-mines, when we rescued Meneldir, Dólion and the others. I don't even know how I could forget that! When he took it, I told him that it wasn't a good idea and that you would not be happy about it. I even have witnesses!"

"I am sure you do." Legolas smiled at him in a bright and thoroughly false manner. "And you just let him take it?"

"Her!"

By now, no one was paying Celylith any attention at all.

"'Let him take it'?" Elladan asked incredulously, ignoring the wood-elf's words. "What should I have done, just taken it from him? Are you insane? You actually do know him, don't you?"

Legolas shrugged slightly. Elladan did have a point; he – and a large percentage of Mirkwood's population – was familiar with Celylith's protective (or rather aggressive) tendencies when one of his pets where concerned.  
"Still," he stated. "You should have done something. I will get you for this."

Elladan stared at him in open astonishment.  
"You will get me for this? Ha! This pathetic excuse for an elf gave the name of one of my most revered ancestors to that … thing! You are his prince and his liege lord! _I_ will get _you_ for this!"

"I just want to inform everybody that I will not be the one to tell _ada_ about this," Aragorn said in a cheerful and not very helpful manner.

"Quiet!" Elrohir wasn't shouting, but it was quite close. "We don't have time for this! If we don't join the others in the courtyard soon, we will be missed, _ada_ will send someone to find us and people will find out. We will deal with this latest proof for the fact that Wood-elves are born brain dead once we have the time and are unobserved, not now!"

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, but quickly closed it again under Elrohir's quelling _look_. Celylith was either not paying attention or didn't care.

"So," Elrohir went on, looking at the other four occupants of the room in turn, "this is what we are going to do: The four of us will go down and join the others in the courtyard, just as we should have done a long time ago. We will then try to stall as long as possible, which will give you, Celylith," he almost bore two little holes into the silver-haired elf's head, "enough time to get that thing out of here and to wherever you have been hiding it these past weeks. With a bit of luck, you can join us before the good-byes have been said."

"But…" Celylith began.

"No," Legolas cut the other wood-elf off. "I like the plan. Go."

"But…"

"No." Legolas didn't raise his voice, but the look on his face was the exact same one the Elvenking wore from time to time. When Thranduil wore it, resistance was quickly followed by pain, blood or death, or a combination of the three. "Take … Lúthien … and go, Celylith, before I am overwhelmed by the urge to do you bodily harm myself."

Celylith quickly realised that there wouldn't be any help forthcoming from anybody in this room, and in something that malevolent people might have described as a huff he grasped the edge of his coat, covered his newest pet with it and walked out of the room. For a few moments, the four of them merely looked after him, before they one by one started chuckling. In a matter of moments, all of them were laughing, even Aragorn, and for that fact alone Legolas forgot some of the irritation he felt towards his silver-haired friend.

"There … there is one thing one has to admit concerning you Wood-elves," Elladan finally gasped. "You are never boring."

"Insane – yes," Elrohir agreed. "Boring – no."

"Celylith is an exception." Legolas glared at the two of them.

"Actually," Aragorn chimed in, holding his still bruised and hurting ribcage, "I rather like the bat. In comparison to his earlier pets, it is almost … cuddly."

"Then, _mellon nín_," Legolas said silkily, looking at the man sitting next to him, "you may have it."

"Oh no." Elladan shook his head.

"Absolutely not." Elrohir followed suit. "Not in this world, and not in the next. No."

Legolas grinned and carefully stood to his feet, extending one hand to the young man.  
"Noldor. No sense of humour."

Aragorn, being the loyal brother and son that he was, didn't say anything to that. For a moment, he just sat there and watched the twins pick up the many bags that were neatly piled up next to the door. Only a fraction of them were his and Legolas'; the main part was healing supplies that had been left behind.

Elrohir hefted the last bag over his shoulder and followed his brother out of the room, all the while mumbling something about annoying Silvan elves, even more annoying princes, insane captains and disloyal brothers.

With a small smile, Aragorn accepted the fair-haired elf's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Knowing that even despite the young man's ceaseless assurances to the contrary Aragorn was in no shape to walk unaided, Legolas cautiously wrapped an arm around the young ranger's waist, careful not to press down too hard.

Without a look back, they walked out of the room and closed the door behind them.  
**  
****  
****  
**  
In retrospect, Gelydhiel would find the day of the arrival of Lord Elrond's party strangely fitting. It was the first day of _Laer_, after all, the season of summer that signalled the defeat of the darkness of winter, and be it only temporary. It had always been her favourite month of the year, even despite the high temperatures that this time often brought with it.

Now, however, she just saw that it was a beautiful May day, with not a cloud in sight and the sun beaming down onto the lush green valley of Rivendell. The waterfalls glistered in the sunlight, a slight breeze ruffled the leaves of the ancient trees, the courtyard bustled with elves that wanted to greet their lords and friends, and next to her Gaerîn was fiddling with her hands.

The dark-haired she-elf stopped her silent ruminations abruptly. Gaerîn was fiddling with her hands? Gaerîn never fiddled with her hands or showed any signs of disquiet, and definitely not in public. Gelydhiel narrowed her eyes at the smaller, red-haired elf next to her, and could only just stop her jaw from dropping onto her chest. Gaerîn wasn't only fiddling, she was nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot.

And not only that, she added inwardly, Gaerîn was, if she wasn't very much mistaken, wearing her second-best gown, the dark-blue one that made her grey eyes almost look blue and showed off her slender figure, white skin and long red hair. The last time her cousin had worn that particular dress, it had been to the large feast their family had given in honour of one of her brothers turning 12 _yéni_ – an occasion that always called for a great celebration – and had subsequently been busy fending off one admirer or another the entire evening.

The smaller healer was right now twisting her hands in front of her, forcing them to be still, and Gelydhiel didn't know if she should be amused or mildly concerned. Her cousin so obviously nervous and actually dressing up for somebody was a sight to behold, surely, but it was also so out of character for her that it was actually worrying. Oblivious to her thoughts, Gaerîn sighed deeply, and the impatient timbre of her voice was enough to prompt the other she-elf to speak.

"Are you all right?" Gelydhiel couldn't quite hide the smug smile that was lurking at the corners of her mouth, and promptly received a dark glare from the smaller elf.

"What?" Gaerîn un-twisted her hands for a moment to make a questioning gesture. "Of course! Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know." Gelydhiel shrugged innocently. "Maybe because Lord Elrond's party is mere minutes away from here? The border guards are rarely wrong in their estimates, you know."

"And I am looking forward to seeing him and everybody else again, just like everybody here," Gaerîn said, looking almost defensive. That was yet another strange thing. Gaerîn was a firm believer of the motto "Offence is the best defence" and never backed down or got defensive. If this wasn't so strange, it would be hilarious. "That is normal."

"You are wearing the blue dress."

Gaerîn looked up at her kinswoman's words, her grey eyes narrowing.  
"'The blue dress'? You make it sound like a weapon! It's a dress, nothing more!"

"Oh, but it is, _gwathel_," Gelydhiel protested. "The blue dress is _the_ dress. The one you only wear if there is a special occasion." Gaerîn opened her mouth to protest but didn't seem to find the appropriate words, and the smile on her face turned into a grin. "And I would say that this is a _very_ special occasion."

"Fine!" Gaerîn snapped. "So I am looking forward to seeing _him_ again. Are you happy now?"

"I have always been happy for you, ever since you two started talking to each other like normal people." The smugness and amusement in the other she-elf's voice were hard to miss. "Don't worry about Isál. The guards would have reported it if he were missing or injured."

"Not so loud!" Gaerîn looked about her, her slender hands describing frantic, pacifying arches. "Do you want everybody else to hear?"

"Gaerîn, dear," the dark-haired healer told her distant cousin, "everybody already knows. It was very hard to miss."

"Not my mother," Gaerîn answered wryly, taking the revelation surprisingly calmly. "If she did, my father would know, and he would already be asking me when the betrothal ceremony will be and my brother would lurk around in shadows and follow me wherever I go to make sure that my honour remains untouched."

The red-haired healer was joking, of course, but Gaerîn wasn't someone to mention something she hadn't given serious thought before, no matter if she was speaking in jest or not. Ignoring the amused looks of the two warriors that were flanking them left and right, Gelydhiel reached out and grasped the smaller she-elf's arm, drawing her into the shadow of the main building where they would not be overheard.

"Betrothal ceremony?"

Gaerîn disentangled her arm, carefully avoiding the taller she-elf's eyes.  
"I was speaking in jest."

"I know." Gelydhiel nodded her head. "But I also know you. You wouldn't say something like that if you hadn't given it some thought." Gaerîn didn't answer, and the other she-elf took another step closer to her relative. "Is it really that serious?"

"I … I don't know," the red-haired healer mumbled. "I … yes. I think so. For me, at least."

Before she could say more, Gelydhiel had thrown her arms around her cousin and hugged her, only just resisting the urge to jump up and down with joy. They _were_ in the courtyard, after all, with half of Rivendell watching their antics.

"That is wonderful, Gaerîn," she whispered in the smaller she-elf's ear. "I am so happy for you! I was already despairing, you know. You are bad and the captain is bad, but together you are an incommunicative catastrophe."

"Calm down!" Gaerîn retorted urgently. "Please, Gelydhiel, restrain yourself! This is only a flight of fancy; no one knows about it! He hasn't asked me anything yet, perhaps he is not even thinking about something like that."

"Oh, please." The taller healer shook her head but obediently took a step back, releasing her friend. "Of course he has been thinking about something like that! He has been thinking about something like that ever since he first laid eyes on you! In the dear captain's mind, you are already married with four little red-haired elflings running around!"

"We never spoke about the future." Now Gaerîn, too, was shaking her head, with enough force to make her long, partially braided tresses fly abound her shoulders. "I think it was because he could hardly find the courage to speak about the present. How can I know what he is thinking?" She wrinkled her brow, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows that the dark-haired captain in question would have found most endearing. "He is male. How can anybody know what he is thinking?"

"Ah, my friend, _I_ know. Trust me."

"Oh, do you?" Gaerîn raised a red eyebrow in question. "And how, if I may ask?"

Now it was Gelydhiel's turn to look slightly flustered, and Gaerîn could only watch in astonishment as a flush crept up the other healer's face.  
"Well … you see…" Gelydhiel began, fumbling for words.

"Yes?"

"Captain Elvynd told me," the taller she-elf finally admitted. After the hastily spoken fourth word, she clamped her mouth shut as if she was afraid what more she might say.

"Captain Elvynd…" Gaerîn began incomprehensibly. She wasn't the youngest healer to be appointed master healer in more than a thousand years for nothing, though, and quickly put two and two together. "Ah, I see. So what are you and the dear captain talking about, then, if you aren't discussing my private life?"

"Gaerîn, please," the dark-haired she-elf pleaded. "It's not like that. We are not discussing your private life. I was just asking him…"

The red-haired healer grinned, holding up a hand.  
"Calm down, my friend. I was joking. I know that you wouldn't do something like that. What interests me, however, is just when you started talking to him."

"Why, I am one of his healers," Gelydhiel said defensively. "I am entrusted with his care. What do you expect me to do, just appear at his bedside twice a day and administer my potions without saying a word for over thirty days?"

"No." Gaerîn shook her head, a smile on her lips. "I would never allege that you possessed such a callous attitude. I just hadn't realised you were having such regular … talks with him."

"Will you please stop saying it like this?" Gelydhiel glared at her smaller cousin, absentmindedly wondering just when this conversation had got out of control. "You make it sound as if I am only one step away from eloping with him!"

"Ah," Gaerîn – ever the practical one – said, waving a hand derogatorily. "You wouldn't have to elope with him. I can't see his family complaining, you don't have any brothers, and your father does anything you want anyway. He would not withhold his consent were you to ask him."

"I know. Since my mother journeyed to the Havens, he has been rather overwhelmed by all of us females. With my sisters and your sister and all the other cousins, he doesn't really stand a chance and…" She broke off and shook his head. "Why am I even talking about this! I am not going to ask him, and neither is anybody else!"

"Not even Captain Elvynd?"

"No!" Gelydhiel exclaimed, loud enough so that the two warriors close to them turned around and looked at them with raised eyebrows. "Definitely not now!" Gaerîn raised her eyebrow without saying a word, and the taller healer leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. "Just … just don't let me talk anymore, will you?"

"Ah, but now it is getting interesting!" Gaerîn grinned evilly, apparently thoroughly enjoying herself. Revenge was sweet indeed. "Since when are you having those conversations of yours?"

"They're not my conversations," Gelydhiel protested, but knew better than to remain silent. If there was one thing to be said about her kinswoman, it was that she was persistent. "Don't talk like that about something about which you know nothing."

Gaerîn stared at the taller healer in surprise. Gelydhiel was usually a very kind a reserved she-elf, and now was one of the only few times when she had ever said something that even remotely began to sound harsh. The look of consternation and surprise was quickly replaced by a large smile that spread over her face, and she had to stop her hands from fluttering around like overexcited birds.

"Gelydhiel, you really _like_ him!"

At that the dark-haired she-elf looked up, dark-blue eyes large and insecure.  
"I … I honestly don't know. We've just … talked; all perfectly harmless, nothing I haven't done with others. Ever since he was well enough to leave his room, I have been taking walks with him in the gardens. Somebody had to make sure that he didn't try to escape and follow the others."

Gaerîn only shrugged in agreement. Ever since the captain had recovered enough to actually walk anywhere without falling flat on his face, he had tried everything in his power to be allowed to follow Lord Elrond's party. With Lord Glorfindel, Lord Erestor and Lord Elrond himself and all his sons gone, Rivendell was temporarily ruled by the rest of the council and the remaining senior captains. The captains senior to Elvynd who were now in charge of the warriors had only snorted when he had asked them to allow him to follow the others and had looked at him as if he had just asked them to travel to Mordor and join forces with Sauron. The council had used more words than that, but the answer was the same: None of them would take the risk of chancing Lord Elrond's wrath by allowing one of his patients to essentially commit suicide, and especially not when said patient would only seize the opportunity to give the term revenge a whole new meaning.

Which, of course, meant more work for the healers, who now not only had to watch Elvynd for medical reasons but also for a whole set of different ones. The captain had been authorised to take walks in the gardens of Rivendell and also as far down as to the first guard post, but all the stablemen knew what they were to do if he appeared anywhere near the horses: Knock him over the head with a pitchfork and get a healer as quickly as possible.

Needless to say, Elvynd wasn't taking it very well. The men of Donrag had killed his men and Lord Erestor and had almost killed him, and now his lords, his men and his best friend had ridden to punish them – without him. Rationally, he knew that he was still not fully mended yet and that such an expedition would be too taxing for him (even now, more than thirty days after he had reached Rivendell), but that didn't mean that he didn't feel angry, frustrated and helpless.

Come to think about it, Gaerîn decided, the captain had seemed less angry, frustrated and helpless and generally calmer when Gelydhiel had been around.

"You have to give him time," she finally counselled her friend. "He is still not well, and Isál's absence weighs heavily on him. Once he sees him alive and well, or what counts as well for those two … well, then we'll see."

"See what? I don't even know what _I_ think about all this! We're just … talking."

"Oh, yes." Gaerîn nodded. "And taking walks in the gardens. In the romantic, moonlit, beautiful gardens where you can disappear behind a hedge for a little extra-solitude."

Gelydhiel glared at the smaller she-elf.  
"If you keep saying things like that, my father might actually change his mind and forbid me to ever see him again." She frowned. "Besides, just why do you know that?"

Gaerîn fell silent immediately and blushed in a way that, in combination with her red hair, didn't look all that attractive. It took her a moment to compose herself, but then she glared at the taller she-elf fiercely.  
"If you don't stop grinning like a dim-witted troll, _gwathel_, I swear that I will…"

She fell silent just in time and turned around with a sweet smile on her face when she perceived movement to their left. The large smile on her face was enough to make the dark-haired elf who was walking up to them falter for a moment (if Gaerîn was smiling at you like that, it just couldn't be a good sign), but then he steeled himself and stepped closer. Next to the red-haired healer, Gelydhiel stiffened and desperately searched for a neutral expression.

She wasn't very successful, but Elvynd was far too preoccupied with his own troubles and worries to notice. When he finally had gathered enough courage to look up, the dark-haired she-elf had managed to force the mask of calm friendliness onto her face that she had perfected in the many years of serving as a healer.

"Good day, my ladies."

"Good day, Captain." Gaerîn nodded at him, trying her best to hide the small smile that wanted to spread over her face. "Are you ready for the big event?"

"As ready as I will ever be," Elvynd told her with a small smile of his own. "I am close to where they will stop their horses and I have this." He nodded at the large piece of wood he was holding in his right hand.

Gaerîn looked at the makeshift club in confusion, feeling as if she was missing something important here.  
"If you'll forgive me for asking, Captain, but why would you need that?"

Elvynd gave her a puzzled look that clearly said that he considered this to be a very strange question.  
"Why, to hit Isál over the head with it, of course. Leaving Rivendell before I got back, what was he _thinking_?"

Gaerîn almost winced openly. The young captain had made her tell him everything Isál had said and done since the news of his "death", and had been none too pleased with what he'd heard. He didn't have to say it, but he feared that the other captain might do something reckless and stupid in order to avenge him, a worry that Gaerîn secretly shared.

"You … you don't really want to hit him, do you?" she finally asked somewhat timidly.

Elvynd gave her a quick smile.  
"No. But it will be amusing to watch him try and reason his way out of this."

Before she could stop herself, Gaerîn let out a slow breath. She had been telling the truth; she was looking forward to seeing Isál again, and the last thing she wanted was having to drag him off to the healing wing before they could even exchange a single word.

"That is good to hear." She fell silent for a moment, but then she caught Gelydhiel's desperate eyes and quickly continued, "I trust that you are feeling better today?"

Yesterday Elvynd had been plagued by a violent bout of headaches. It was something that happened very frequently, and these headaches were actually serious enough to merit the word migraines. They had found out that no potion they could think of was working, probably because these weren't "normal" headaches but were rather related to the head injury the dark-haired captain had sustained during the fight. Yesterday had been an exceptionally bad day, so bad that the tiniest ray of light was enough to send fiery stabs of pain through Elvynd's skull.

Come to think of it, it had been Gelydhiel who had made sure that the curtains were drawn tightly in front of the windows of the captain's room, that no servants or visitors disturbed his rest and there was always a cool, wet cloth on his forehead.

"Yes, I am, thank you." Elvynd inclined his head slightly. The cautious movement was in stark contrast to his confident words; it seemed as if he young warrior was afraid that his head just might fall off if he inclined it in too drastic a manner. "I am feeling quite … rested today."

Next to Gaerîn, Gelydhiel was blushing, causing the red-haired healer to look from one dark-haired elf to the other in confusion. Deciding that it was something between the two of them (something she would get out of her cousin later today), Gaerîn decided to be merciful and spare her friend from having to say anything.

"I am glad, then," she said. "Did the potion I made help?"

"A little, yes." Another one of Elvynd's minute nods. In other words, Gaerîn decided, it hadn't helped but the captain was too polite to say so. "I could bear the light better."

Gaerîn looked at the dark-haired captain, all personal amusement at this situation fading. Elvynd looked far better than when he had arrived in Imladris, yes, but that wasn't too hard to achieve. He had been more than half dead at that time, after all. The arrow wound had healed nicely in the end, after them having had to battle the infection and fever that had almost enough to shut down Elvynd's body completely.

The head injury had been a bit trickier, as head injuries were bound to be. For the first week and a half, the injured elf had hardly been aware of what was going around him, blinded by the pain that raged in his head. They had constantly been giving him sleeping potions for almost two weeks, to spare him the agony that awareness brought with it and to give his body a chance to rest. Eventually, it had healed as well, so that the only reminders of it were the headaches and the faint scar that started between his eyebrows, ran diagonally over the left side of his forehead and disappeared in his dark hair.

No one knew if the scar would fade. With time and some more of Lord Elrond's salves that softened scarred tissue and aided the healing process it probably would, but Gaerîn for one didn't believe that it would ever disappear. It would stay with Elvynd forever, as a faint reminder of what had almost happened.

And, she added quietly, studying the young captain's weary eyes, as a faint reminder of what _had _happened and of what he had lost.

"We can ask Lord Elrond if he has any ideas," Gelydhiel chimed in, having decided that this was ridiculous. Nothing had changed between them, after all, so why would she suddenly be afraid to talk to him? "We do have some excellent healers here, but none of us are a match for Lord Elrond."

Elvynd smiled at her, a smile that made the shadows in his eyes a little less visible.  
"Thank you for saying it, my lady, but I think we all know better. The headaches are just something I will have to live with."

"No," the dark-haired healer shook her head. "You don't know that. They will probably fade with time anyway, but there is no reason why we shouldn't try to speed up the process, now is there?"

The young captain looked at her with something akin to wonder in his eyes.  
"You really never give up, do you?"

"Not if I care about something, no." Gelydhiel shook her head, looking at him bravely.

Gaerîn was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable. She had the distinct impression that she shouldn't be here, but before she could follow that line of thought any further, the elves around them began to stir and a murmuring was beginning to fill the air. Gaerîn, who had been present for enough homecomings, knew only too well what that meant, and forcedly clamped down on her excitement. She had already behaved undignified enough today; she wouldn't start hopping up and down like a young infatuated elf maiden.

Grasping her friend's hand and trusting that Elvynd would follow, she pushed her way through the crowd until she could see what was happening. Considering her height, that took quite some time, but no one tried to stop them. There were few in Rivendell who dared oppose her, after all, which was only one benefit of being a healer: Accidents could happen to everybody, after all, and everybody could end up in the healing wing.

Most of the people who _did_ dare oppose her were right now riding through the gates of Rivendell, their horses' hooves clattering loudly on the cobblestones. It was a long line of riders that rode into the courtyard, all of them dust-covered but most looking rather refreshed. It had taken them eleven days to travel from Aberon to Rivendell, three or four days more than it usually took. Even though the three most seriously injured people had refused to use stretchers, they had had to take frequent rests and travel much more slowly than on the way there.

Elrond was the first one to make it through the gate, only to be immediately swarmed by elves who wanted to welcome him home. In a matter of minutes, the entire courtyard had been thrown into chaos, with elves trying to get off their horses to greet their family and friends or said family and friends trying to push their way through the crowd to reach the warriors. Greeting yet another elf that had been pushed towards him, Elrond noted with a smile that Ferdhôl, the warrior of Elrohir's troop who had almost died defending Legolas' life, was almost pulled off his horse by his two brothers and one of his cousins. Next to him, one of Isál's men had managed to dismount and was hugging his wife and one of his children, while Annorathil was apparently trying to assure his sister that nothing had happened to his nephew, the young elf standing next to him and smiling nervously at his mother.

Glorfindel was staying close to Erestor's horse, "just in case". Erestor was doing much better now, more than three weeks after the fight in Donrag, but Glorfindel would hear none of it. The dark-haired councillor was beginning to get seriously annoyed by his friend's overprotective attitude, but Glorfindel was suffering these bursts of short temper with equanimity – which, of course, only served to infuriate the Noldo further.

Right now, however, his chief advisor was clearly enjoying himself. It did not really surprise Elrond, of course; he had known his friend long enough to know that he possessed a wicked sense of humour, if he deigned to show it. That one time came to mind, for example, when King Thranduil (only that he had still been Prince Thranduil then) had visited Imladris with his father before the War of the Last Alliance to confer with him and Gil-galad and they had all got drunk and then… Elrond quickly ended that particular line of thought. In mutual understanding, Erestor, Glorfindel, Thranduil and he had never again spoken about that night (of which he could remember little except for the High King's and King Oropher's fury), and he would not think about it if he had any other choice.

Be that as it may, Erestor looked very much as if he was having the time of his life. There hadn't been any carrier pigeons in Aberon nor had he wanted to send a messenger to Imladris to report what had happened and herald their arrival (after everything that had happened, he didn't trust the people of Aberon enough to risk the lives of one or two of his warriors in such a fashion), and therefore common opinion in Imladris was still that Erestor had died with the rest of Captain Elvynd's men. Erestor was clearly amused by the stares and soft exclamations that greeted him wherever he went, and Elrond was sure that he would continue to be amused by it for some time to come.

Close to his two friends, Celylith and Legolas had managed to dismount without undue trouble, or so it appeared. It was something he personally would contribute more to the prince's horse than to anything else – half of Rivendell was terrified of it. It was, in his humble opinion, the sensible half. The prince had ridden alone these last few days, which he had not been able to deny him, at least not for purely medical reasons. His wounds were healing nicely, and even though he was far from fully mended, he was definitely strong enough to ride unaided, at least if the proper precautions were taken and he rested enough.

Young Celylith's approval hadn't been so easy to gain, however. The two wood-elves had taken a small "walk" away from the camp the morning after he had given his consent, but despite their attempts to put enough space between their companions and themselves, raised voices had filtered through the woods and into the camp. The silver-haired elf had not been happy with his prince's choice and had told him so, from the looks of it loudly and repeatedly.

In the end, however, Legolas had done exactly as he pleased – he was Lord Thranduil's son, after all. It really surprised no one, not even Celylith who had come back to the camp narrow-eyed and with a little line of disapproval between his eyebrows. He hadn't spoken of it again, though; by now Elrond knew well enough that the captain would never criticise his prince in public or in front of witnesses.

The journey had taken the hardest toll on Aragorn, as could have been predicted. It had been three weeks now, but with the illness on top of his injuries, his weaker healing powers and the stress of travelling, he was still weak and tired easily. His shoulders were still hurting him, even though Elrond knew he would never admit it, and even though most cuts and abrasions were healing, he could not walk unaided due to his broken leg and still had trouble catching his breath. He had, to his disgust, been riding with Elrohir or Elladan the entire time, and was right now being helped off the horse by Isál, who was simultaneously answering about a dozen questions at once.

Elrond began to make his way over to where his sons and the two wood-elves were standing, intent on dragging all of them into the house and his healing wing before they could get into trouble. All the ingredients were here, after all: A lot of excited people, weapons, horses, and water and cliffs close-by. If he didn't do something soon, he would have to patch up one or more of them. _Again_.

It was slow going, with so many elves trying to greet him and ask him what had happened (_this time_, but everybody was too polite to say it), and when he finally was almost close enough to touch Elladan, a tall, dark-haired figure pushed its way through the crowd and stopped right in front of the small group he was trying to reach. It was Captain Elvynd, as he quickly saw, moving fluidly and without the need for assistance. The younger elf looked much, much better than the last time he had seen him, and the only sign of what he had been through was the fresh pink star that ran over his forehead. It would fade with time, perhaps even considerably, but the healer in him doubted that it would ever disappear completely.

Elrond stopped in his tracks and sighed softly. It was a great relief to see the captain so well; even though he had never truly doubted that Elvynd would survive and recover, it was good to actually see him with his own two eyes.

The object of his scrutiny had managed to push his way through the crowd and had stopped in front of the six others. There was no emotion visible on his face, and for the first time Elrond saw that the young captain held a club-like piece of wood in his hands. Isál, however, did not seem to notice, his eyes glued to his friend's face.

Elvynd tore his eyes away from the other dark-haired elf and gave the three brothers, Legolas and Celylith a quick nod.  
"My lords. It is good to see you again."

Elrohir nodded back for all of them, a smile on his face that was mirrored by the others.  
"And you, Elvynd. I can't tell you how happy we are to see you alive."

"Yes, that seemed rather unlikely for a while." Elvynd smiled back at his young lord. He turned serious for a moment. "Are they dead?"

None of them had to ask of whom the captain was speaking, and Elladan nodded with a cold smile on his face.  
"Oh yes. They are, all of them."

For a moment, there was nothing on Elvynd's face, no satisfaction, no contentment, nothing. Then he slowly closed his eyes and exhaled, and when he looked up again, it was as if a shadowy weight had been lifted from his shoulders, allowing him to breathe more easily.  
"Then I am content. It is over."

"Yes, it is," Aragorn said softly and couldn't help but lean against Elrohir in exhaustion. The journey had sapped his strength far more than he would have thought, and his entire body was throbbing like a giant bruise. "They have paid for what they did."

Elvynd merely nodded before he returned his attention to his friend. During the entire exchange Isál had remained silent and was still only staring at the other captain as if a single word out of his mouth could shatter him and make him disappear. His eyes wandered over him slowly, scanning him from head to toe, and when they came to rest on Elvynd's forehead and the scar there, his eyes clouded over in rage.

Before he could say anything, however, Elvynd had taken half a step forward, the makeshift club he held in his right hand tapping onto the open palm of his left one.  
"So," he said, his voice cracking and not sounding steady at all. "Shall we do it here or would you prefer a more private environment?"

Isál gaped at his friend, clearly not understanding what he was talking about, and it took him quite some time to find his voice.  
"Do … do what?"

"Why, and here I thought that to be obvious." Elvynd told him, his face still serious. "I intend to crack you over the head with this for running off like that before I had the time to get back, and that in that state of mind. What were you thinking?"

"I probably wasn't thinking at all," Isál admitted with a small shrug. There was a smile beginning to spread over his features that he just couldn't hold back. "As usual."

"True." Elvynd nodded regally. "That is why I am here, after all, to do it for you."

"Yes," Isál agreed, still not averting his eyes from his friend's face. "That is why you are here."

For long moments, the two of them were only looking at each other without another word, but then the spell was broken. The club landed on the ground, probably hitting some poor elf's toes, and Isál pulled his friend into a hug that should rightly have cracked at least a few of his ribs. For the longest time, neither of them spoke, but then Isál's voice could be heard, sounding muffled by his friend's shoulder and emotions that were so strong that they were hard to identify.

"If you ever – ever! – do something like this again, _mellon nín_, I _will _crack you over the head, do you hear me? Getting yourself _almost_ killed without telling me, honestly!"

Elvynd laughed, the first real laugh anybody had heard him utter since he had woken up in Rivendell to find his nightmares reality and his best friend gone.  
"The next time I get ambushed and have my head cut open, I will endeavour to inform you in a timely fashion. Would that please you?"

Isál's answer was a wordless snort. It took the two of them some time to finally part from each other, and the jaw-splitting smile that both of them were wearing was still on their faces when they finally did. Isál was already explaining to Elvynd what had happened, his hands describing wide, dramatic arcs, while all of them slowly made their way over to the main house, when the crowd in front of them parted as if separated by a magical hand and Gaerîn appeared, a hesitant smile on her lips.

The others were about to greet her, but quickly realised that she wasn't paying them any attention at all. Her eyes were fixed on Isál's face as unwaveringly as Isál's had been focussed on Elvynd earlier, and she was standing as still as a carved statue. Isál, however, seemed to have lost his capacity for articulated speech yet again, an occurrence that had probably been aided by the unexpected sight of Gaerîn in _that_ dress.

The two of them looked at each other, clearly unaware of anybody else around them, and it was Gaerîn who found her voice first, as could have been expected.  
"Captain."

The dark-haired elf swallowed heavily and dragged his eyes away from the sight of just how well that dress fitted his beloved, and quickly looked at her properly.  
"My lady."

Next to his friend, Elvynd was rolling his eyes. He knew that Isál was deeply in love with Gaerîn and that she, too, had developed feeling for him, so why did he have such a hard time even talking to her? A moment later he remembered his own frequent and inexplicable muteness when talking to said healer's cousin, and stopped his inner monologue abruptly.

Fortunately for all of them, Gaerîn decided to end this stalemate right then and there. Ignoring the elves around them and throwing propriety, good behaviour and modesty into the wind, she took another step forward and kissed the silent captain. For a moment, Isál seemed to be shocked more than anything else, but he quickly warmed to the idea of what was happening and kissed her back just as fervently.

Just in this moment Elrond finally managed to push his way through to his sons and their friends, and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the rather inappropriate sight that greeted him. Had the two of them been aware of anything but themselves, they would surely have been mortified. Things being as they were, however, Elvynd merely gestured at them that he was going to stay behind with his … preoccupied friend, probably to quickly pull him away if Gaerîn's mother unexpectedly showed up, Elrohir wrapped an arm around Aragorn's waist to steady him and Elladan quickly pulled his father away. Elrond's other eyebrow rose to join the first in comment of his son's quick actions, but he allowed himself to be led away after having made sure that the two wood-elves were following.

It wasn't his problem, after all, and besides, he very much doubted that they would do more than kissing in the middle of the courtyard.

After what felt like an hour, they managed to reach the stairs leading up to the main house, having had to stop to greet half of Imladris on the way there. As soon as he had set foot on the first stone step, Elrond felt how a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. Home. He stopped for a moment to savour the two syllables. They were finally _home_.

And as always when his beloved sons came home, he had to drag them into the healing chambers. Some things never changed.

"All right," he said and turned around to face the five far too innocent-looking beings in front of him. They had probably been planning to slip away in the chaos of their arrival, before he even remembered that there was such a thing as a healing wing. Ha, he told himself gleefully. His sons would still need some practice before they would be able to outwit him. "Elladan, Elrohir, please escort your brother to the healing wing. Captain," he was turning to give Celylith the _look_, "I trust that you will accompany your prince there without getting lost on the way."

"_Ada_…"

"Lord Elrond…"

"No," Elrond said almost happily. "No arguing. I will join you there momentarily."

Legolas and Aragorn were shooting him mutinous looks, the latter through eyelids that had half closed in exhaustion, but that availed them nothing, of course. No one could contest Lord Elrond's _look_, especially not when he was at home and knew that he had every reason to be smug. Stubborn the two of them might be, but they weren't stupid and knew exactly when it was better to give in gracefully. A moment later Aragorn was being half-carried to the healing wing, Elladan to his right and Elrohir to his left, while the two fair-haired elves followed slowly, Legolas quietly trying to convince Celylith to let him 'slip away'. The silver-haired elf merely laughed and tightened his grip on his prince's upper arm. If he ever felt the undeniable wish to visit the Halls of Mandos, he would disobey Lord Elrond's medical orders, not a moment earlier.

Elrond slowly walked up the stairs after the younger elves, stopping frequently to greet one elf or another. To his left, Glorfindel and Erestor emerged from the crowd, and Elrond silently vowed to himself that he would somehow trick Erestor into setting foot into the healing wing in the near future. His dear chief advisor was a lot better, yes, but he would like to examine him again and have another look at his hand. Here in Rivendell, where he had a group of trained healers and all the instruments he needed at his disposal, he simply felt a lot better and far more secure.

At the top of the stairs Elrond stopped for a moment and turned back around towards the courtyard. His eyes wandered over the familiar sights and came to rest on the many exuberant faces that were turned towards him, and without him even noticing a large smile spread over his face. He hadn't realised how much he had missed Rivendell and all its inhabitants..

He waited for another heartbeat of two before he turned around and followed his sons and their friends into the house, the broad smile still on his face.

Valar, but it was good to be home.  
**  
****  
****  
**  
The room slowly swam into focus, something that confused him quite a lot. Not the room in general of course – it was his room after all – and not even the fact that he was in _his_ room – he had happily accepted the fact that he was back home – but rather the fact that he couldn't remember going to sleep. All he could remember was reading the newest scroll Elladan had brought him and then…

Frowning slightly, Aragorn sat up as best as he could without moving too much, and quickly found that the strange pillow he had felt under his cheek was in fact said scroll. For a moment, he only stared at the length of parchment and narrowed his eyes, trying to decide whether or not the script looked slightly faded. If the ink had somehow stained (in that case he would have parts of paragraph 56 of the fifth volume of the _History of the Noldor_ printed on his cheek), Elladan would kill him.

Their father had given the entire book (which, after all, consisted of 24 volumes) to Elladan some years ago as a _Yestarë_ present, and the older twin loved it fiercely. Elrohir had received the _History of the Sindar_ that same year (which consisted of 26 volumes, which only proved that the Sindar would rather die than be outdone by the Noldor at anything), since Elrond was a fair elf and very conscious of his mixed heritage.

Right now, Aragorn was reading half a volume of the histories every day; every day a different one of course. Yesterday he had finished Volume 4 of the _History of the Sindar_ and was already close to finishing today's part of Volume 5 of the _History of the Noldor_, and had already reached the point where he would give his right arm for a paragraph about the Silvan Elves, or the Nandor, or the Vanyar – everything but the Sindar and Noldor.

Carefully smoothing the expensive parchment and rolling it back up, Aragorn placed the scroll on his bedside table. It wouldn't do if Elladan came in and saw his book mistreated; while Elrohir was the one who was more interested in books and lore, Elladan was still enough his father's son to look upon books as something sacred that only the stupid or ignorant damaged wilfully. And so was he. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was to see books mistreated.

The only problem about all this was that he couldn't remember going to sleep. He had just thrown Legolas out a moment before – the wood-elf was becoming very good at hovering – and had just wanted to read for a bit more, and then … nothing. Aragorn frowned. Had he drunk anything? But no, he was too experienced for that; he hadn't touched anything that could have been laced with drugs of any kind, except for the potions that his father forced down his throat on a regular basis.

There was another explanation, which was probably also the most logical one: He had just fallen asleep, plain and simple. Accepting that would mean accepting that his father, brothers, Legolas and associates (in this case most of Rivendell) had been right and that he still had to rest and regain his strength. He was no fool, of course, and had been trained in the healing arts too thoroughly to deceive himself about his physical condition. The broken leg made it hard to ignore, after all; he could not walk without the help of a crutch, a walking stick or a helpful elven arm, and that probably wouldn't change for the next two weeks. His overall condition was still very weakened and his lungs had not fully healed; a combination that ensured that he had to stay lying or sitting down for most of the day if he didn't want to end up as a gasping heap on the ground.

So yes, he was fully aware of his condition, but that didn't mean that he wasn't also highly frustrated. The fact that Legolas, who had been injured at least as badly in Donrag, was already up and around, showing little sign of his injuries, only added insult to injury. It was one of the things that sometimes made him think that living with elves was a punishment: When he was still forced to remain abed to recover, everybody else, even those who'd had one foot in Mandos' Halls already, were joking and dancing in the Hall of Fire and generally behaving as if nothing had happened.

It wasn't only frustrating, it was unfair and infuriating.

Aragorn forced himself to breathe out slowly and carefully rolled over, wincing slightly when the healing lacerations on his back and his still sore ribs complained. He ignored his body's signals with an ease that only long practice brought and carefully sat up, scooting back until his back hit the headboard. Now in a more comfortable position, he firmly told himself to calm down and regain some perspective. It wasn't their fault that their bodies healed more quickly, after all, and they were doing everything they could to take his mind off his "incarceration".

And that was perhaps the worst thing about it: After three days of being confined to his room and constantly being surrounded by cheerful elves, he was beginning to become a tad irritated. His brothers, Legolas and the others were doing their best to cheer him up, after all, but if there was one thing he had learned over the years, it was that it was almost impossible to cheer someone up who simply didn't want to be cheered up and resented the very fact that people were trying. Not that his less than enthusiastic response had fazed anybody, of course. They were all just ignoring his bursts of bad temper, something that of course only made him more irritated.

The young ranger sighed again. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate what they were trying to do. They were doing what they could, and he did not blame them for it. It was only that he was beginning to feel smothered by so much uninterrupted companionship. During the journey it had been different, somehow, with the landscape and the other warriors to take his mind off things, but here, in his room with nowhere to go, it was a lot harder and more confining. It gave him too much time to think, too much time to remember things he would rather forget. The good-bye from Vonar and Tibron had been hard enough, and even though he bore neither of them a grudge, he knew that he would need some time before he could even think about returning to Aberon to see them again.

Aragorn sat up and gave the curtains that were half-drawn in front of the door leading to his balcony a longing look. The cloth was swinging back and forth with every slight breeze that caught it, allowing the rays of the afternoon sun to filter into his room. The dark-haired man narrowed his eyes and came to a decision. He would get up and go into the gardens and sit down there for a while, no matter what his father said, and no one would be able to…

"I can only repeat what I said earlier," Legolas' voice interrupted him in mid-sentence. "I will _not_ help you climb down from the balcony, and that is final."

Aragorn turned toward the voice, not even surprised that Legolas had managed to open the door, enter the room and walk up to him without him hearing a single sound. The wood-elf wasn't only getting very good at hovering; he was also becoming very sneaky.

"I swear to you on my honour that I never entertained that thought," he told the blond elf with a far too innocent smile. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, something that caused Legolas to take yet another step closer to him, looking very much as if he just wanted to dump him back onto the mattress without even discussing. "I am not going to climb down from anywhere. We are in Rivendell, Legolas, in civilised parts. That's what stairs are for."

Legolas only raised an eyebrow, took up one of the carved wooden chairs that were clustered around the bed and sat it down right in front of his friend. He straddled the chair and put his chin onto the backrest, studying the man curiously.  
"So that is what you are going to do?"

"Yes," Aragorn told him. "That is what I am going to do." Legolas didn't budge or say a single word, and he added, "Please, Legolas. I have to get out of this room before I break something! I cannot stand being cooped up much longer."

"I understand that, Estel," Legolas said in the exact tone of voice a mother would have used for speaking with her whining child. "But your father does not share that particular opinion. His orders were very clear."

"Oh yes." The man nodded darkly. "'Five days of bed rest, and if I see you out of the room before that, I will have Gaerîn get the chains'." He grimaced. "I remember."

"Besides," Legolas went on with an evil smile, "there is nothing out there that is even remotely interesting. There is only a light breeze, a perfect temperature, sunlight that is filtering through the trees, bright green leaves on all the trees, butterflies and singing birds everywhere…"

"You are evil. And cruel. Even vicious, one could say." Aragorn gave the elf his best wounded-puppy-dog look. "A typical Sinda, in short."

"Do I really have to start enumerating all the faults of the Noldor yet again?" the elven prince asked, doing his best to sound exasperated. "I don't think you really want that, unless you want to spend the next few hours listening to me drone on and on."

"As if that would bother you." Aragorn grinned at him. "You love hearing your own voice, we both know that." He ignored Legolas' snort and added, "Besides, I would be careful if I were you. In case you hadn't noticed, you are in house of a Noldorin lord and are surrounded by Noldor."

Legolas shrugged, clearly unimpressed.  
"They can't do anything to me without causing a diplomatic incident or a war, and they know that."

"Keep up that attitude and you will find yourself floating face-down in the Bruinen," Aragorn told him, amused. "With a couple of arrows in your back, of course."

"Ah, then I truly do not have to worry," the prince declared, looking very pleased with his reasoning. "Everybody knows that you Noldor couldn't hit a barn door if you were standing right in front of it."

"Now that is just not true," another voice commented. Aragorn looked up, feeling mildly resentful that no one seemed to consider it necessary to knock anymore. This time it was Celylith who was standing in the doorway, a large smile on his face that didn't look very genuine. "If they are less than ten foot away from their target, even Noldor have a slight chance of hitting it." He frowned in mock thoughtfulness. "If it's not to small, that is."

"You are hilarious today, Celylith," Aragorn commented sourly. Now there were two of them; just why did wood-elves have to go everywhere in packs?

"Thank you, Estel." The silver-haired elf grinned at him. He picked up another chair and put it down next to Legolas', unknowingly mirroring his prince's earlier movements. "I do my best."

Aragorn returned the grin just as evilly. Celylith wasn't the only one who could play this game, now was he?  
"How is Lúthien?"

Immediately, the two wood-elves' faces darkened. Legolas had been trying to order Celylith to set the small bat free (or rather set it free in a cave and block the entrance, since the animal seemed to have grown quite fond of the silver-haired elf), but Celylith had refused to do so with unusual success until now. Aragorn supposed that it was only a matter of time – Celylith was Legolas' subject, after all, and Legolas was his father's son – but until then, Celylith would move heaven and earth to find a way to disregard his prince's orders. How the wood-elf had even brought the bat to Rivendell in the first place was anyone's guess.

"Very well, thank you," Celylith said with a tight smile. Not even he could miss the evil look Legolas shot him, and so he quickly closed his mouth and contented himself with glaring at the young ranger.

Legolas stared a little bit longer at the silver-haired elf before he returned his attention to Aragorn, who was right now thinking about trying to use this moment of distraction and escape into the gardens before they remembered that he was here.  
"Be that as it may, you are staying here."

"Since when are you on their side?" Aragorn asked, wondering if he should feel truly hurt.

"Since the last time you tried to get up and nearly brained yourself on the corner of a table when you fell over."

"Ah, that," Aragorn said dismissively. "That was a little misstep, nothing more."

"No matter," Celylith said firmly, coming to his prince's aid. "You are not leaving this room."

"Just what is going on here?" the man asked, almost deciding to pinch himself. Was he still dreaming? "Why are the two of you so adamant about me staying here?"

"Because otherwise you would have been gone before we could get here," a new voice declared. Aragorn turned around, irritated, and decided that he should just give up on the notion of anybody respecting his privacy and actually knocking. The voice belonged to Elladan, who was sticking his head into the room, a big smile on his face. "And that would have been a shame!"

Before Aragorn could ask just what in the name of Eru Ilúvatar he was talking about, Elrohir's head appeared next to his brother's, and the two of them entered the room. The man's irritated thoughts ground to a standstill when he saw what his brothers were carrying: Elrohir was holding a large tray laden with what looked and smelled suspiciously like honey-cakes, having trouble to even look over the top of it, while Elladan was only holding a small package, about twelve by fifteen inches. Around the smile on his face, Elrohir was shooting his twin dark looks that the older elf just as steadfastly ignored.

The two of them stopped in front of his bed, apparently waiting for him to say something. Aragorn looked from one smiling face to the other in confusion, feeling very much as if he was the only one who had no idea what was going on here. Truth to be told, that was probably true.

"Could somebody please tell me what is going on here?" he finally asked in a rather faint manner. If this was one of the twins' jokes, he was not in the mood for it.

"Why, Estel," Elrohir said as he carefully deposited the large plate on the nearest nightstand. "And I thought that would be obvious. This is a begetting day – I mean a _birth_day – celebration."

Aragorn gaped; there was no other word for it.  
"Elrohir, my birthday was almost three months ago."

Elladan smiled at his little brother's tone of voice, the one that was implying that Elrohir had apparently just taken a fall and landed on his head.  
"We are aware of that, Estel," he said, carefully putting the little parcel he held on a free chair. "But we were in Baredlen then, and had no presents for you. And _Yestarë_ we missed, too. We couldn't let that stand."

"So you..."

"Organised a little celebration for you." Next to him, Legolas was positively beaming. "Everybody is waiting in the Hall of Fire, but we wanted to give you your presents in private."

"Exactly," Celylith agreed, eyeing the cake-laden plate with growing interest. "Are those _real_ honey-cakes? With," he sniffed delicately, "nuts?"

"Of course," Elrohir said, slapping the wood-elf's hand away. "And they are for Estel, not for you."

Aragorn gave the veritable mountain of sweet cakes a quick glance.  
"Why don't you all help me eat them? If you want me to eat them alone, you won't have to worry about me leaving this room, because I will never walk again."

"Thank you, Estel. You are a true friend," Celylith said over his shoulder, already reaching for one of the sticky pastries. He turned back around and shrugged off the disapproving look Elrohir gave him. "What? I didn't have lunch."

Aragorn did his best to hide his smile, and was rather surprised when Elladan suddenly appeared next to his shoulder, offering him a hand up.  
"What, don't you want to have a look at your present?"

The young ranger looked up at his elven brother, the confusion making a reappearance.  
"But I thought…" he began, gesturing at the parcel on the chair.

"Ah, that is only the second part of it," Elladan explained, grasping the man's hand and carefully pulling him to his feet. "The first part is waiting over there."

Aragorn looked into the direction in which his brother was pointing, his confusion deepening. Up until now, all this indeed had all the trademarks of one of his brother's jokes, which usually involved him being confused, too.  
"The present is waiting on the balcony?"

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a conspiratorial look. It was something that, under different circumstances, would have caused Aragorn to run for cover and hide.  
"Something like that. You will have to come and see."

There was nothing Aragorn could do but trust that, this time, they wouldn't do something to him that would result in blood and mayhem (in his current physical state, their father would kill them if they did), and so he allowed Elladan to walk him over to the balcony doors and push aside the curtains. The three other elves were crowding behind them – probably to watch how Elladan sent him plummeting into the Bruinen or the courtyard – and it was a good thing that the balcony was in fact so large, or they wouldn't all have fitted onto it. It was so large, in fact, that it reached around the corner of the building, therefore allowing a view on either the courtyard or the garden and the river.

Elladan quickly steered him over to the right, therefore apparently wanting him to have a look at the courtyard. That made sense; landing in the courtyard would be a lot more painful than landing on something potentially soft, like a bush or even a tree. He didn't know why Elladan would do that to him, but then again, elves could be a vicious lot with long memories. He might remember something he himself had already forgotten a long time ago. His brothers could be like that, which made living with them so much more interesting, of course.

They reached the edge of the balcony and Elladan motioned him to look, that large grin still on his face. Aragorn limped closer, his un-bandaged left hand closing around the carved wooden balustrade. For a moment, he didn't really know what he was seeing, but then his eyes grew wide and surprised.

Elvynd and Isál were standing in the eastern part of the courtyard, as close to his balcony as possible. Judging from their expressions and gestures, they were discussing something, and Aragorn could guess what it was. News of Isál's and Gaerîn's … inappropriate behaviour had quickly made its way through Imladris, resulting in two pairs of rather unhappy parents and one brother who had been dying to have some time alone with Isál. Ever since then, the dark-haired captain had been trying to avoid just that meeting, up until now with impressive success. Aragorn smiled inwardly. Isál and Elvynd were probably right now discussing possible hideouts or tactics should Gaerîn's brother ever catch up with him.

What caught his attention far more, however, was the fact that Elvynd and Isál were standing in the courtyard and Elvynd was holding the reigns of a horse – his horse. Even though he had not been riding the animal on the way back to Rivendell, he had seen it every day, trotting next to him tirelessly. It was a large, dark mare he had been given in Mirkwood last winter and which, after a fight with some wolves, he had named Rácatári. It was a slightly … strange horse, not in the same, evil way as Rashwe, Legolas' horse, but it was disconcerting enough.

Right now, however, she was looking very different from the last time he had seen her. There was a new saddle on her back, made of light brown leather that looked so soft that Aragorn couldn't help but long to touch it. The saddle, the tack and the blanket were decorated with silver wreaths of leaves that had delicately been sewn into the leather, even into the saddlebags. The blanket was one of the ones that the Elves of Rivendell weaved, soft and light and still strong and durable, but instead of the grey or white that these blankets usually were, this one was dark green. In short, the animal looked magnificent, and judging from the proud toss of her head she knew it, too.

For long moments, Aragorn could only stand there and stare. In the end, when it became obvious to the elves that Aragorn wasn't going to say anything anytime soon, Legolas took a step forward and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, peeking over the man's shoulder. Elvynd and Isál had done an exceedingly good job. The horse looked splendid indeed – not quite as splendid as Rashwe, of course, but a close second.

"So, do you like it?" he finally asked.

"Like it … Valar, of course I like it!" Aragorn exclaimed, turning around and looking at the four elves with shining eyes. "How could I not? You did this?"

"Your brothers did a good job." Legolas shrugged modestly. "All I did was help threaten Elv… a few people."

Elladan made cutting, hushing motions with his hands, and Aragorn grinned.  
"I don't think I want to know. I really don't think I want to know."

"Since you only got the horse in Mirkwood a while ago, we decided that you needed new gear for it. It is always better to have a custom-made saddle," Elrohir told them.

"But … but how did you organise all this?" Aragorn asked wonderingly. "I know that design, you know. That is something the Elves of Mithlond would do."

"Actually, we ordered it when we had just got back from Baredlen," Elladan answered. "Elvynd's father helped us procure it."

Aragorn nodded, still a little bit overwhelmed and feeling that he had a good idea of whom the three of them had bribed to get his present.  
"I see. Well … all I can say is thank you, I presume. It is beautiful, all of it."

"You are most welcome, _muindor dithen_," Elrohir said with a smile, throwing his arm around the man's shoulder and beginning to steer him back inside. "And now let's get back inside and open your other present. This is the one from the family."

Elladan stepped up to the balustrade and gestured at the two captains that their part in this was over. The two of them waved back and began to lead the horse back over to the stables, still deep in conversation. The twin decided that he didn't really want to know what solution they had found for Isál's problem.

"Estel is supposed to be the excited one, not you," he told his twin as he followed the others inside. "You are behaving like an elfling."

Elrohir ignored him, probably distracted by Celylith who was already devouring his second honey-cake while Legolas had just taken his first.  
"These are really very good," the silver-haired elf told them, his mouth still full.

With a mumble that sounded suspiciously like 'Wood-elves', Elrohir pressed his human brother into an armchair and went to fetch his present. While Aragorn was removing the protective paper covering that was wrapped around it, the twins positioned themselves on the bed, side by side. By now, Elladan, too, had succumbed to the temptation of the honey-cakes and was nibbling one.

"_Ada_ wanted to be here when we gave it to you, but he got held up in council," Elrohir explained. "It is always the same when he is gone for a while; they find thousands of matters that require his 'urgent attention' and that will keep him occupied for a few days. He will join us later in the Hall of Fire."

Aragorn nodded but didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the object that was revealed when the paper fell away. It looked like one of the writing tablets that children used when they were learning how to write, one of those wooden tablets that were filled with wax so that the writing could easily be erased. Right now, the lid was closed, but there was a small metal latch on its right side that he flicked open. When he opened the lid, he was, for the second time in less than ten minutes, reduced to mindless staring.

It wasn't a writing tablet, that much was certain. It was a picture frame with two wings, one of the sort that could be placed on a desk or mantelpiece. On the right side, drawn on fine, crisp, white parchment, there was a portrait of a man with dark hair and grey eyes. On the left side, there was a woman, with the same eyes and the same hair colour, but her long dark tresses were unrulier and almost curly, very much like his own hair.

The woman was young and beautiful, and even though the man's face was stern, there was also something deeply kind about him. Even though Aragorn could have sworn that he didn't know them, he felt as if he had seen them before, as if in a half-forgotten dream. Suddenly the realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning: The man, even though his face was broader, looked like _he _might look like in a few decades.

Aragorn turned around, a frown on his face that was softened by the questioning look in his eyes.  
"Are they…"

"Yes," Elladan said softly. "Your parents. There are still enough of the artists who remember them, so they drew them from memory. Your father was easier to draw since he was here often, but there were also two portraitists who remembered your mother."

"We thought that it was time that you had a picture of them," Elrohir added. "It would not do if you forgot where you come from."

Aragorn did not say anything for a long time, the forefinger of his left hand softly tracing the contours of his mother's face. After several minutes, he finally reached out and carefully placed the pictures on the desk next to him, turning them until they could easily be seen from the bed. Apparently finally satisfied with the position, he turned towards his brothers, his eyes large and very bright in his face.

"I could never forget where I come from," he said firmly. "You have been teaching me everything about that, after all, everything about their ideals, their hopes and about the dreams that they had for the future and for me. And just like I could never forget that, I could never forget where I _am_ or who made me who I am, even without a picture. You are my family, just like they are." He swiped his left sleeve quickly over his eyes. "I thank you, my brothers, for this priceless gift."

Before he could say another word, the twins had enveloped him in a careful hug.  
"There is no need to thank us, little brother," Elladan said quietly, holding onto the too thin body of the man. "You are our brother and we love you. That is what families do."

After a moment, the three of them broke apart and Aragorn took a deep breath, his eyes still gleaming and bright. He turned to Legolas who had been watching the scene with a smile and gave him a long look.  
"I thank you as well, _mellon nín_. For everything."

Legolas, knowing that Aragorn was talking about more than just the presents, only inclined his head before he returned the look seriously.  
"There is nothing you would have to thank me for, Aragorn. You would have done the same for me."

"I might." Aragorn smiled back at him. "Still, I thank you. You, too, Celylith."

"There is no need, Estel." The silver-haired shook his head, by now well into his fourth honey-cake. "Are you coming now? Everybody is waiting downstairs."

"Yes," Aragorn said, feeling so happy that he thought he might burst at the seams. "Yes, I think I will. Lead the way."

And that Celylith did, after having snatched a last cake from the rapidly shrinking pile on the large silver plate. Elrohir stretched out his hand, silently offering him his help, and Aragorn gratefully took it, allowing his brother to help him make his way out of the room after Elladan and Legolas.

There were people waiting for him, after all, and as the apparent host of this celebration it would be most rude to let them wait.  
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Much later that same day, when the sun had already sunken below the horizon, the Hall of Fire was once again empty and silent. The only light came from the glowing embers of the fireplace, and the shadows in the corners were lengthening and growing into bizarre shapes.

The celebration had not lasted all that long, especially since the host had not been able to keep himself awake for more than a few hours and had then been dragged off to bed by his brothers. The man had protested, of course, but the _look_ Elrond had given him in combination with the exhaustion that had swept over him had quickly made him reconsider.

At first glance, one would have been tempted to say that the hall was completely empty, which would have been true if not for the two shapes sitting on one of the comfortable sofas in front of the fireplace. The two were utterly motionless, either resting or asleep, and the only sound that could be heard was an occasional crackle from the dying fire.

Elrond certainly didn't notice them at first when he made his way through the Hall of Fire, intent on reaching the back of the house. After the little celebration he had had to return to the council, and had been held up until now. Erestor wasn't attending the council meetings since he was still recuperating and Glorfindel had had pressing things to discuss with his captains (or that had been what the golden-haired elf had quickly claimed). Never before had he realised how much he missed Erestor's dry wit or Glorfindel's good-humoured jests in these meetings; the last three days had been nothing but a series of long, odious council sessions. Well, there was at least one positive thing about it: They had nearly caught up, which meant that things would go back to normal very soon.

Or, he corrected himself, to what counted as normal around here.

He had already almost reached the door leading to the back part of the house when a tiny movement to his left caught his eye, and he stopped in mid-stride. Turning around, he narrowed his eyes until the shadows coalesced into more clear-cut shapes, and when they did, he couldn't help but smile. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he made a decision and slowly walked over to the lit fireplace.

On the sofa in front of it, there were two figures, one with dark and one with fair hair. At first, Elrond wasn't sure if they were awake or sleeping until he saw the eyes of the blond one move and focus on him at his approach. The dark-haired elf's eyes remained vacant, and judging from the even rise and fall of his chest and the relaxed expression of his face, he was fast asleep. The half-elf smiled at his friends and sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa, his back to the fire.

Elrond studied his two friends, the fond smile on his face widening.  
"So," he finally addressed the fair-haired elf in a soft tone of voice, "did you come here together or did you follow him?"

Glorfindel gave his friend a look that spoke volumes.  
"What do you think?" Elrond only laughed silently, and so the older elf leaned back into the cushions, careful not to disturb his companion. "Mount Doom would freeze over before Erestor would ask me – or anybody else, for that matter – to come to the Hall of Fire with him to watch him sleep."

"He was here yesterday night as well, you know," Elrond told the other elf lord, absent-mindedly reaching out and pouring Glorfindel and himself two glasses of red wine from the carafe that sat on the table to his left. "I found him when I went to my chambers at around the second hour."

"I know," Glorfindel said quietly, accepting the glass from his friend. "I saw him, too." He looked at the dark red liquid and added almost in a whisper, "He doesn't like the dark anymore, nor to spend the nights alone in his rooms. It reminds him too much of his cell in Donrag."

Elrond looked at him with interest.  
"Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words," Glorfindel admitted. "But yes, he did, in a way. You know about his nightmares?"

The half-elf nodded solemnly.  
"I have been meaning to speak with you about them. They were hard to miss during the journey. Does he still have them?"

"As far as I know, yes," Glorfindel said. "He never talked to me about them, but he is not the only one who can discover things when he wishes to." He sighed tiredly. "I tried to lead a conversation towards that topic once, but it did not go very well. We just have to give him time, and trust that he will come to one of us to talk when he is ready."

Elrond nodded, studying Erestor's still profile. He was making steady progress, and it would be only a few days until he could take off the bandages that were still tightly encircling his hand and forearm. Being back in Rivendell had helped him enormously, it seemed, so much that he seemed in fact almost completely normal. He was still paler and thinner than usual and there was still the bandage around his arm, but those were the only outer signs that served as a reminder of what had happened to him. Even his old sense of humour was slowly returning to him, much to the chagrin of countless council assistants and secretaries.

It was all not true, of course. Neither was it a lie. Erestor was simply not there yet, no matter how much he would like everybody, including himself, believe it.

"Should we take him to his rooms?" Elrond asked softly. "He looks deeply asleep; I doubt he would notice anything."

Glorfindel shook his head almost immediately.  
"No. He would not thank us for it and would perceive it as a weakness on his part. It would be best if we just left him here, giving him the chance to wake up on his own and make his way to his quarters."

Elrond took a mouthful of the red wine, pondering his friend's words.  
"You might be right. There is no harm in him staying here, after all."

"No, there isn't," the blond elf agreed. "I will stay here and make sure that no one disturbs his rest."

Elrond nodded slowly and shifted slightly to find a more comfortable position.  
"Very well, then." He craned his neck and looked out of the window to their right, studying the night sky. "I would say I have more than two hours before I have to check up on Estel."

Glorfindel looked up from where he had been studying his sleeping friend.  
"You don't have to stay, Elrond."

The dark-haired elf smiled and settled back into his armchair.  
"Neither do you, _mellon nín_."

Glorfindel smiled back at him and leaned back into the cushions, his eyes once again wandering over to the glowing embers of the fire. Neither of them had to stay, but they both knew that they would until Erestor either woke up or they were called away from their self-appointed post on some sort of emergency. And that, Glorfindel decided, his eyes straying to Elrond's calm face, was just how it was supposed to be among friends.

Behind them, two figures stopped in the doorway, apparently surprised by what they saw. The fair-haired one of the two had wrapped his arm around his companion's waist, clearly helping him walk, but it was the dark-haired one that spoke first, his voice so soft that no one other than the elf beside him would be able to hear him.

"We can use another way, Legolas. It will take longer, but we will get to the gardens just the same."

Legolas narrowed his eyes at the three still figures sitting in front of the fire.  
"Are you sure they are not just sleeping?"

"Yes," Aragorn said uncompromisingly. "Glorfindel wouldn't sleep with Erestor like that, trust me, and neither would my father. And besides, even if they were, we would never get past them. It is something I have learned after many frustrating childhood attempts."

"Very well, then," Legolas conceded. "To the gardens it is. Speaking of which, why I am helping you again?"

"Because you are a wonderful and very understanding friend?" Aragorn offered.

"That must be it," the prince agreed, tightening his hold around his friend's waist. "Tell me, Estel, where does that alternative route of yours lead us? Is it safe?"

"Perfectly safe," Aragorn assured him as they all but tiptoed out of the hall.

"No dragons?"

"No."

"Wild oxen? Bats? Spiders? Bears? Wargs? Wolves?"

Aragorn shook his head with a grin.  
"Not the last time I took it, no."

"Evil maniacs who want to kidnap us?"

"Well, we _will_ pass rather closely by the twins' windows…"

"Thank you for the warning," Legolas told the man. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

"Come now, my friend, what kind of surprise would it be if I told you?" the ranger asked in mock seriousness. "It would take the adventure right out of things. Just follow my lead and we will be fine."

"That," the fair-haired elf said gravely, "is usually my first mistake."

"You can admit it, Legolas. You would miss all this."

Legolas slowed down and carefully pulled his friend to a stop, his eyes looking suddenly serious and dark  
"You know, Estel," he said, locking eyes with the ranger, "I believe I actually might."

Aragorn only looked back at his friend and smiled, placing an arm around his shoulders to help balance his weight. Without another word they resumed their slow walk, leaving the Hall of Fire, its occupants and its deep shadows behind.

And soon enough, after a short uneventful trip through dark corridors, they could see the first faint ray of moonlight stream through a window, guiding them towards their goal.

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The End.**

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_yéni (pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144 solar years  
mellon nín (S.) - my friend  
pen-neth (S.) - young one  
muindor (S.) - brother (by blood)  
ada (S.) - father (daddy)  
Laer (S.) - the second season of the elven year, 'Summer'. On a modern calendar and according to the Reckoning of Rivendell, the time between May 22nd and August 2nd.  
gwathel (S.) - (sworn) sister, cousin  
Yestarë (Q.) - 'First-day' or Winter Solstice; the first day of the elven year. On a modern calendar, it falls on the 28th of March  
muindor dithen (S.) - little brother  
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**  
Ahh, so that's it. Everybody's home safe and sound (or more or less safe and sound), the villains are dead and Celylith has a new pet. I know, I know, there ARE a lot of questions here that haven't exactly been answered: What about Erestor? Will Legolas make Celylith give up his adorable little Lúthien? Will Elrond kill Celylith once he hears about that name? Will Aragorn manage to heal without getting into even more trouble? And just how long will Isál manage to elude Gaerîn's brother? The answers to all these questions (well, at least to a few of those; my alter ego would have a fit if I answered all of them just like that •g•) and a lot more are in the next story. Yes, I know that this is a rather pathetic attempt to get you to read that one, too. What can I say? I'm evil. •g•**_  
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**_**And now, as always, to thank a few people... **

First, as always, Jack, who has helped and encouraged me to no end. Her suggestions have always been extremely helpful and often very bloodthirsty. •g• No, she isn't very popular with my characters, I don't know why either.

Second, my flatmates for accepting that sometimes I needed some time and space to keep writing.

Third, all the people who encouraged me to write in the first place! There is no better incentive than people sending you emails saying "When will you start posting, woman?"

And, as always last but not least, my wonderful, lovely, amazing reviewers! •huggles all of them• Especially this last year you have been extremely patient and understanding. Your suggestions and comments were always helpful and very often hilarious, too, and every time I had somehow written me into a corner, you guys and/or Jack helped me find a way out of it. There are no words to express my gratitude; just know that I am completely addicted to your reviews (oh, but I _am _beginning to kick that Diet Coke with Lemon addiction •g•) and that they were helpful beyond words. They continually made my day, so THANK YOU VERY MUCH, all of you!

So, I guess, this is it, the end of yet another insane story. I very much enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it more than my characters enjoyed being in it. •shrugs• Sometimes I can just not understand them...

I would be extremely grateful for an overall review of the story, just to hear what you thought of it in general. Now that it is finished, it is always very helpful if people point out what they liked and didn't like. This way I can improve my writing for the next story. Speaking of which: I guess I will see all of you in two and a half months then (that's an estimate, people!), if you disregard Jack's little story that will be coming sooner, when I start posting the next big story, "Visions of Betrayal". It would be story Nr. 7 (or rather Nr. 8 when you count Jack's story), I think. It will be taking place mainly in Rivendell and surroundings, Aragorn, Legolas, the twins, the rest of the Rivendell elves and maybe even Celylith and his bat will make an appearance and the Rangers will play a big part. Was about time that Aragorn took up his duties, wasn't it - whatever could go wrong? •innocent smile•_  
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**_**Nili**

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**Additional A/N: **

My apologies to Lilandriel, Miruial and Kalmiel for not replying yet again - your email addresses didn't show up on the review, it's not listed on your profile pages and your homepages' URL are invalid! Sorry! The same goes for Firniswin (no email address on the profile page and nothing I could find on the homepage on first glance). You guys should consider putting your email addresses onto your profile page or maybe review anonymously and leave your email address every time. Sorry again!

So, remember, leave either anonymous reviews with your email address or signed reviews with your email addresses on your profile page, otherwise I can't send you the review replies! Sorry for the inconvenience!

**Oh, and: Since I am posting this from an internet café (my internet is down again), I will have to send the review responses later. I have just discovered that my email provider will not let you send emails to more than five people or so, or if it does, I cannot discover how to do it. That is the reason why I use Thunderbird! •grrr• These glitches usually last about a day or so, so I will send them tomorrow (or earlier if I'm really lucky). Sorry for that, and thanks for your patience!_  
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